


Suites and (Space) Ships

by TempleVevHelm



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Constructicon fluff, Everyone lovin on Prowl, Fluff, Gen, Mostly domestic fluff and character building, Polyamory, Worldbuilding, lots of AUs and UAs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 21,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempleVevHelm/pseuds/TempleVevHelm
Summary: Prowl is slowly but surely accepting his new (not as annoying as he first thought) gestalt. Prowl/Constructicons drabbles, some in their own little continuity, some in alternate universes.





	1. The Beginning of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all starts...

Blue optics narrowed down at the unorganized scrawls left across the datapad. He grumbled and pinched his nasal bridge. He briefly contemplated why he was even bothering. A large, clumsy digit suddenly probed his audial and startled his train of thought. Irritated, Prowl smacked the annoyance away before turning in his seat to glare at the perpetrator, Long Haul. 

Long Haul’s visor seemed to scrunch up in mirth, and Prowl’s side of the bond tingled pleasantly. Not feeling particularly pleasant himself, Prowl squeezed down on the bond, and Long Haul hurriedly backed off a couple of steps to calm Prowl’s ire. Satisfied, or as close as he could get in his current predicament, Prowl turned back to his work.

Long Haul’s servo rubbed against his chest, above his spark chamber, and muttered lowly to himself, “Th’ frag’s your deal…?”

Before Prowl could get a glyph in edgewise the larger ex-con skulked out of his office, likely to find others of the gestalt. Prowl scowled as he felt the bond ache for him. He had a long cycle of work ahead of him…


	2. Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has a brief encounter with his sticky gestalt...

It took all his self control not to do an about-face. Nevertheless, Prowl couldn't hold back the bemused scowl that twisted his features. Before he could back out, five sets of visors turned towards him in a unison so natural and instinctive that it could almost be described as intimidating.

The apprehension that flared when those visors widened and lit up was pushed back.

"Prowl!"

"Hey—"

"You're back!"

The cacophony was only emphasized when the large frames bustled up to him—pushing and shouting greetings. Prowl almost felt flattered by the attention. Almost.

However, after vorns of self-isolation, Prowl was hard-pressed not to open his arms to the spontaneous "attack" as he would with one of Bluestreak's tackle-hugs.

Without thinking, Prowl raised a single servo and stilled the room. Five blocky, purple-and-green splotches skidded to a halt before him. Prowl waited until they were settled, then held out his digits. Five independent servos immediately reached out and caught hold of him. The bond thrummed in excitement for this new requisite. 

The stocky digits traced over seams that were almost laughably thin compared to their own, tweaked at servo joints and tested their mobility. When one of the servos became too friendly, winding its way up Prowl's arm, he snapped out of his daze and stepped back. His gestalt nearly followed, straining in his wake, but they knew not to push. 

What they received would never truly lift, and it was more than they had expected for the orn.

Prowl's doorwings hitched up sternly, a reminder of why he came, and he cleared his vocalizer. "I need you all—" visors brightened, "—To clear up the rubble blocking West Iacon." The visors dimmed back down. "I'm aware that the status of this mission is not..." Prowl paused, his Tac-Net flooding him with the only advice he knew he would never trust himself to follow through with, "... The most exciting of directives, but we all must contribute to the rebuilding of our world."

The Constructicons, clearly latching onto Prowl's collective-usage glyph, jumped up and got ready to head out. Prowl, though he didn't quite believe in Primus as his higher power, sent a prayer in hopes that he would survive through the antagonizing ordeal of dealing with his gestalt.


	3. Crystal Slumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day of work, Prowl finds a mysterious gift...

There was a servo on his doorwing. It felt nice. Prowl’s optics reset with a gentle buzz, refocusing slowly. 

His Tac-Net reported no immediate warning—the environment was well organized, clean and has several routes of escape within an acceptably low risk factor. As for himself, he was curled—protecting his spark, his servos and pedes were free to move—to fight or to protect, he was comfortably warm, and he was surrounded by a gestalt that would cleave mechs in half for looking at him incorrectly. 

He was perfectly safe.

…

_Wait._

Prowl’s sparks lurched in its chamber for a nano-klik before his Tac-Net fed from and exhausted his emotional output. 

With renewed optics, Prowl surveyed his situation. 

His environment—clean and organized—his own habsuite. Routes of escape—still accessible, but several led to rooms which had no other means of exit—none that his doorwings would fit through. He was indeed curled—not the best position to get up swiftly, it also prostrated his doorwings to any threat in the vicinity. His servos and pedes were free, but they felt heavy—recharge-laden and… Weighted. Warm—plating. 

The register of the overwhelming purple and green plating again sped his spark, and again it was calmed. 

Calm morphed into cold fury.

They had taken and used the emergency code for his habsuite.

Prowl pushed himself into a kneeling position, effectively stagnating the nest the Constructicons had formed around him. 

The sudden movement startled Scavenger awake, who then flailed and fell off the berth, taking the mesh—and Hook—with him.

The sound of panicking ex-cons and an angry SIC woke up the Autobot base that day.

* * *

After Prowl evicted the Contructicons from his habsuite, he furiously scrubbed every nano-meter of his plating. He noted that no intimate progressions were forced upon him in recharge—his tactile panels were unopened, the same was true for his medical ports and spark chamber. 

Speaking of _spark chamber_ , Prowl stamped down harshly on the sparks desperately clinging onto his through the bond. They didn’t understand the problem with recharging next to—not only a superior officer, but a mech who had been _forced_ into their gestalt. Prowl would _not_ treat this situation was a reward. If the Constructicons wanted him to play nice, they would have to earn his time and respect. So far, they were trying for neither.

The sparks in the bond backed off; Prowl could almost swear he heard them wailing as they did, but knew rationally that such a thing wasn’t possible. He stopped himself from rubbing his grill—the dull throbbing was deeper than protoform and no amount of tweaking or rubbing would soften it.

The corridors were long and lonely. Despite how lightly Prowl walked, every pedestep echoed along the halls. The desolation was partially due to disruptive bots being banned from the area—Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, the _Wreckers_ —and Prowl. It seemed that no self-respecting bot wanted to be caught dead around him.

This wasn’t what he wanted. Prowl never meant to be the subject of hatred and general distaste. His job offered no alternative—as the Chief of the Tactical Division, Prowl _had_ to make the difficult decisions. Those situations that no other bot would dare to touch, Prowl calculated, reviewed, and dealt with. 

He was—at spark and at function—an enforcer. He served the people; he fought for their best interests, even when they didn’t want him to. 

In the aftermath of Praxus’ fall, Prime gave Prowl a new directive—to protect the people, save them by organizing troops and fighting for freedom. 

Prowl hoped that the war could be won quickly, with minimal loss or damage to Cybertron, but it wasn’t meant to be. At every turn, Prime would set forth a higher standard—directives that were severely impractical, and, on a few occasions, _impossible_. 

To demand that no bot was to die... Prime, while he meant well, didn’t understand the fury of war. His spark was too soft; he was unfit to lead as a military commander. Prowl could only watch the numbers as they crunched and multiplied farther than he would’ve allowed on his own. 

After that—there was almost no point continuing. 

With each side fighting themselves into extinction, Prowl couldn’t make a solid prediction on the world he’d once dreamed of rebuilding—of enforcing. Without his purpose—his function, what was he? Without the love of his people or his city, why should he continue?

The Tac-Net spit out calculations on the mechs most likely to survive and he wilted a bit more.

Reaching the door to his office reminded him of the work that still needed to get done. Prowl’s doorwings straightened. He could rest with his city when he was done, when there were no more reports to file, logs to fill or meetings to attend—but for now, he would throw himself into work.

Prowl’s servo hovered over the pin-key before swiftly typing in the access code. 

Prowl nearly heaved a sigh of relief at the comfortable familiarity of the room. Datapads were stacked neatly in rows of thirty, each categorized by their importance and urgency. At the back of the office sat a single desk—unattached to the floor, thank you very much—with a high-strut chair molded to fit the specs of his doorwings slotted behind it. 

There were no distracting colors or trinkets to fiddle and waste time with. The perfect working area—uncluttered and ringing with a silence calming and familiar, it was nearly a presence in-and-of itself.

Prowl checked his posture and stepped into the room, his Tac-Net murmuring warnings and suggestions to his main processor. Prowl casually turned up his practical sensors and listened for irregularities. He turned them back down as he pulled out his chair and the Tac-Net directed itself towards the datapads left over from the last orn. 

Thinking about last night sent a slight twinge through his field before he pulled it back in. The sudden, sensor-depriving terror of having a seasoned veteran medic storm into his office to scold him about recharging was still with him.

When Ratchet’s ire was tested, there was no going back. 

The growling medic had insulted Prowl the entire way back to his habsuite, jabbing at anything and everything—from the overly clean state of his office to the “garish” shade of red on his chevron, nothing escaped Ratchet’s keen and cutting optic. Prowl allowed the glyphs and growls to pour over him with no complaints—what sane mech wouldn’t? 

When they reached Prowl’s hab, Ratchet only gave Prowl half a klik to punch in the code before Ratchet shoved him in and closed the door. As if things couldn’t simply leave him be, Prowl also woke up surrounded by the bane of the Autobot cause—the Constructicons.

Prowl grimaced shortly, he pulled the datapads towards himself and flicked on the first with a precise and well-practiced motion. He scanned over the introductory statement at the beginning before he lost himself in the rest of the report. 

When he was finished, Prowl put down the pas he held and picked up a new one. Once done with that one, he signed off on it and picked up the next. This procedure went on uninterrupted for the next few joors. Prowl slowly allowed himself to forget the terrible cycle he’d experienced and focus more on the reports.

A lull in the work had Prowl putting a halt on his current reading to rub his chevron. When he looked up, Prowl reset his optics. He reset them again. 

Prowl’s doorwings pulled up defensively as he finally registered it: a small box. He hadn’t noticed it before—impossible, jarring, and quite concerning—it wasn’t like him to simply overlook something that had the potential of being dangerous. 

However, something inside of him told him it was safe—he felt urged to pick it up, open it and receive the gift inside. It dawned on him that those feelings truly were coming from inside—inside his spark chamber. He snarled, pushed the unwelcome bunch from his frequency of the bond and glared at the box. The top of it peaked up at him, hidden partially by the datapads Prowl worked just a bit more than halfway through.

A recognition ping at his door had Prowl grabbing the box and—despite his better judgement—shoving it in his subspace as he called out, “Come in.”

Prowl cursed his impulsiveness and Bluestreak bounded into the room, talking animatedly, “Hey Prowl it’s good to see you I haven’t seen you in so long I’m sorry I haven’t been around to check up on you or anything I’ve been busy with the Twins they’ve been inviting me to their parties and Smokey’s been urging me to come since I guess he thinks all I do is practice sniping and run things around the base which is totally not true also I heard about what happened I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you before Ratchet I heard he—“

“Bluestreak,” Prowl interjected gently as he lifted a calming servo to serve dually as a visual cue and a form of self-defense, “It’s perfectly all right. I understand you’ve been busy, that’s perfectly fine. I’ll take those,” Prowl gestured to the new datapads held in Bluestreak’s arms.

“Hm? Oh yes right these are for you Red Alert wanted me to give these to you I just so happened to peak a bit more into the control room and I nearly grabbed his servo because I saw Ratchet on the monitor behind him and you were with him and I saw that he took your chevron and just—“

“Thank you, Bluestreak,” Prowl again jumped in, taking the datapads and setting them beneath the others. He settled back and glanced at the other vibrating Praxian. “Would you like to sit down? I wouldn’t be opposed to taking a short break, it has been a long few cycles,” half of that sentence was not very truthful, but it _had_ been a long work shift. It was also rare to see Bluestreak with all the renovations that needed to be made for the newly reacquired Cybertron. Everyone was busy these orns.

Bluestreak paced quickly over to Prowl—bypassing the spare chair in front of the desk—and plopped himself onto Prowl’s lap. “Oh yeah that’d be great Prowl thanks things have been really really crazy these last few decaorns I got back to base I haven’t had a break in so long hey I should start bringing some cubes for us and we can have little scheduled breaks every orn what do you say?”

“Hmm,” Prowl hummed noncommittally, but they both knew that Prowl would always welcome his company.

“So I was thinking now that we’re all back on Cyberton and the war is finally winding down wouldn’t it be great if—“

Prowl let Bluestreak’s glyphs wash over him. He ignored the few warnings sent by his Tac-Net about his static work rate and instead shifted to bring Bluestreak into a more comfortable position. Bluestreak ended up sitting partially on Prowl’s lap and the curve of the armrest, his knees pulled up and his pedes rested on the opposite perch. 

If anybot were to walk in they might pause at the two Praxians, but it was Bluestreak and Prowl—they had a comradery that no one else on the base could truly understand. Were they brothers? Friends from before the war? Amica? It was a source for speculation, but not a limitless one. Everyone just knew that they were close, and that was enough during those times.

Bluestreak’s hurried glyphs and kind tones lulled Prowl into a mild sense of ease. After a few kliks of talking, Bluestreak announced that he had to go. When he got up, Prowl could very suddenly feel the warmth that Bluestreak took with him. Blue waved as he passed through the door and back into active duty.

Prowl’s derma twitched, wanting to form a smile at Bluestreak’s familiar address, but never quite made it. 

Prowl reached into his subspace, pulled out the little matte box that he’s hidden upon Bluestreak’s arrival and contemplated it. Making up his processors, Prowl set it down on the desk. With one servo, he held the bottom of the box to the table, he turned up the gain on his audials and used his other servo to carefully pry the lid off the box. He stopped every so often to listen for clicks or mechanisms that would signal a trap. There were none. The lid slid off with little effort and the Tac-Net detected no (obvious) weaponry. Prowl leaned over and peered into the box.

Oh.

Mindlessly, Prowl reached into the box and with an expert servo, cradles the crystal until it was safely tucked into his palm. He gently turned it over his servo, it glittered an iridescent purple-and-blue. Prowl hadn’t seen such a crystal since Praxus was still standing—since he’s been first sparked. 

Back then, even though he was a pre-programmed, cold-constructed mech, he felt the naivety of his youth—his lack of true experience. After a full day of patrolling and chasing down the ne’er-do-wellers of Praxux, he would go and tend to the crystal gardens on his compound. There were thousands of crystal varieties, all pain-stakingly plucked, relocated, polished and tended to. 

Back then, Prowl would’ve said there was nothing more beautiful—that if Cybertron were to someday burn down, his crystals would remain, untouched by pain or despair. He would’ve been wrong.

Prowl missed many things from Praxus, it seemed, but this trinket—this symbol of his love of the past, of all the things he could still have one day… It nearly broke him. Worst of all was that he knew who placed the gift here. He knew because he could feel them behind his sparks, asking without glyphs, What’s wrong?

Perhaps it was time to start asking himself that question.

* * *

They looked at him incredulously, yet hope still shone in their visors. Then, as one, they got up and jolted towards him, eager questions on their derma, about the gift, about the gestalt. Prowl’s engine revved aggressively. The hurried patter of large pedes prancing away should’ve amused him, but he was in no mood to laugh. 

Instead, he flicked a doorwing as he turned on his heel, a sure gesture for them to follow. Without further need for prodding, five sets of heavy frames trailed after him. For each corridor passed, closing in closer to Prowl’s final destination, the excitement around the bond grew. 

When they were just in front of Prowl’s habsuite, the bond trembled with joy—underlain only by the sorrowful suspicion that Prowl would tempt them before shutting the door in their faces and changing the emergency code—it would be a fitting punishment for sneaking into Prowl’s suite last cycle. Prowl entered the access code and stepped through the threshold. 

The door didn’t close behind him.

Excitement renewed, the ex-cons lumbered into the room. Prowl was already sitting on his berth, his face blank in a way that suggested unease—or perhaps a desire for someone else to take the first step. Bonecrusher climbed alongside Prowl, the berth creaked slightly, but held up. 

Bonecrusher leaned back and pulled Prowl to his side. When they were settled—Prowl’s helm rested against Bonecrusher’s chest—the ex-con shot his gestalt-mates a look. 

What hesitance there was immediately broke and the other Constructicons piled in around them. For a few moments arms flailed, legs kicked out and subdued grumbles filled the room, but when it calmed, all was peaceful.

Tucked between a squirming Scavenger and a sharply kibbled Mixmaster, Prowl glanced at the crystal on his night stand and knew that there would always be something waiting for him after the war.


	4. Light Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy day with Prowl and his gestalt...

Prowl’s systems purred in content. After a long orn of work, he entered his habsuite with a nuance of pleased surprise. 

The Constructicons were gathered in his hab—but instead of making noise and rattling Prowl’s patience, they were silently entertaining themselves. Independent distraction wasn’t an amazing feat by itself, but considering the zealous interest they had for Prowl... Well, it was a miracle that they hadn’t swarmed him upon entering.

Suspicious of a trick, Prowl had hesitantly stepped over to the desk—the Autobot cause never rested, so neither did he—and slowly sat in the comfortably padded chair behind it. There was no hurried rustling or sudden startle as five fully-upgraded war frames charged towards him. Only serenity. 

Hopeful, Prowl brought out a data pad—a mission report from Special Ops, rare as they were, Prowl set the reports as a high priority whenever they came through—and scrolled down to his last stopping point. 

Barely three kliks in and Prowl wasn’t even hiding the hum of his engine. The gentle cant of his doorwings suggested a sleepy reluctance to move of disturb the unusual peace.

Each Constructicon was in their own little world. 

In the corner was Bonecrusher, the largest ex-con seemed to be taking a nice nap right on the floor. Bonecrusher was huddled up against Scavenger, who was quietly polishing a few nonsense trinkets until they shone. There was a slowly growing pile of shining junk piled next to him, just opposite of Bonecrusher. 

On the berth, Hook and Long Haul set up a game of Waterfront—a strategy game Prowl brought from Earth. Both were avidly staring at the board, but the mood between them wasn’t competitive. The moves came slowly, but both servos were steady and sure as they moved their pieces. 

A small clicking noise preceded the image of Mixmaster’s set up. The large mixing bot was leaning over the short table that stood stoutly before the couch. A variety of large and small vials, tubes and cubes overtook all available surface area. Mixmaster grunted and grumbled to himself as he poured and folded liquids and powdered additives together.

The gentle hum, purr and whir of systems filled the habsuite. 

Bonecrusher’s rattling snored, Scavenger’s quiet polishing, the taps of Long Haul and Hook’s pieces moving across the board, and Mixmaster’s tubes and cubes clinking—it all cycled life through the room. 

Prowl’s space had never been so filled with life—not even when Bluestreak and Smokescreen came over, bouncing and haggling and talking a million kilometers a cycle.

Prowl watched over his gestalt and relaxed back into his chair. The soft glow of the datapad illuminated his optics—and if Prowl just so happened to let them stay long enough to fall into recharge around him, no one else would ever know.


	5. Thermostat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise as the entire gestalt fights over the true value of heating within the hab...

“It’s not optimal for joint-locks—“

“That’s a load a’ scrap an’ you know it! I’m practically _melting_ in here an’ you want—“

“C’mon, Hook, you know he’s right, it’s too warm in here! Just turn the dial down and—“

“If you shmucks so much as _touch_ that thermal-dial, I’ll scrap the lot of ya! This ‘gex needs a constant, lukewarm thermal environment or else—“

“Then take it somewhere else! I’m sure there’s a great place for you just _over there_ —“

“And expose it to even more outside stumuli!? I don’t think so—“

“ _Hey!_ Get your grubby medic servos offa the dial, Hook—“

“ _Noooo_ , it’s too warm! Long Haul, do something—“

“Quit it you exhaust ports! I’m try’na get some decent recharge over here—“

Prowl exhaled a sharp ventilation. He shut off the datapad and put it down before standing behind his desk. With a roar, he flipped it over onto the Constructicons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bot talking (in order): Hook, Long Haul, Scavenger, Mixmaster, Scavenger, Mixmaster, Long Haul, Scavenger, Bonecrusher.


	6. Dancing at Point Zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enforcer walks into a pub. An enforcer was grudgingly talked into the pub. An enforcer was pushed into a pub. An enforcer was bodily dragged into the pub and then when he finally went in he was abandoned and hit on by some jerk who thought his ass was the center of the multiverse. Or something like that...

The beat grated against his audials. Prowl’s doorwings were held stiffly. He’d attempted to keep them neutral—for his own sake is not for the sake of his gestalt—but the shaking, bumping, grueling noise and hype of the other bots around him continued to hassle his sensitive doorwings into pulling close. Prowl shied away from another stray touch.

It was a neutral zone—rare enough that the war and its news reached them but wasn’t really felt. The bots here were young, naïve, sent away from Cyberton when they were young so they wouldn’t have to suffer through their creators’ war. 

The aforementioned fact was the only thing allowing Prowl to tolerate their immature behavior—he’d always had a soft spot for younglings.

However, not every bot was young—those were the ones most often pushing their luck with him. Their greedy, ignorant servos tried to grab at him and pull him away from his table. Their vocals were saccharine and their glyphs were sickly sweet. Prowl hated sweet things.

Prowl again dodged the eager digits and coaxing modulations and sunk as far back into his seat as he could. A few of the patrons were getting confident, asking for dances. These bots had _no idea_ who he was—and that was part of the charm, the little that there was in such a place. These bots didn’t know him or care about what he’d done—all they wanted was to dance and drink until they shorted out.

Prowl internally asked himself why _he_ was here, but the answer always came back to one thing: the Constructicons. He stopped himself from gritting his dentae, but just only. The giant heaps of shrapnel and gestalt-kibble brought him to the Primus-damned place and left him there to “go get drinks”. Prowl didn’t want to think about how they’d _buy_ those drinks—if he did, he was in danger of doing something about it and arresting them all on neutral territory. However, waiting seemed to be just as difficult. The ex-cons hadn’t yet returned from their drink trip, and Prowl couldn’t see their hulking figures over the crowd of desperate, gyrating neutrals that filled the club.

“Well hello there, what’s a pretty bot like you doing in a place like this?”

The comment was so cliché and unexpected that he took a nano-klik to form his glyphs.

“What?”

Great response, Prowl.

“Yeah, _you_ ,” the smarmy—though conventionally attractive—mech chuckled, sliding closer. “You’re rusting away over here—how’s about you, me, an’ those pretty wings go get a drink?”

The comment was phrased as a question. Prowl calculated a 87.368% chance that it was not actually meant as such. 

“No thank you, my drink is coming.” Prowl knew that causing a scene wouldn’t help his situation. 

The mech was unperturbed tough and sat down in the booth with him. The stern line of Prowl’s derma belied how terribly offended he was—he refused the invitation and warned the mech that he was with at least one other person, but the new bot wouldn’t back off.

“Oh, c’mon now, _Sweet Rims_ —all right, look—if you don’t want a drink, how ‘bout a dance?” The mech leaned closer until his humid ventilation puffed over Prowl’s audial, “Then I can test out your lights—“

“There a problem here, Prowl?”

Prowl _felt_ more than _saw_ his gestalt looming behind him, the bond prickled ominously and he knew he was safe. Feeling more in control of the situation, his doorwings slid farther down behind the seat, gently tracing his _”pretty wings”_ against the smooth lines of the Constructicon behind him. “Oh no, no problem at all, Bonecrusher, _he was just leaving_.”

The aforementioned mech quickly stumbled away from the table. Bonecrusher growled his engine angrily after the stranger, but Prowl’s pleased thrums from across the bond stalled him. 

The Constructicons came around, sitting themselves around their Foreman like a shield and setting down their glasses. A tubular glass was set before Prowl. Sensing no suspicious urging, he drank. The tangy, bitter taste danced over his glossa. 

Prowl leaned back into his seat, crossed his legs and hid a smirk behind his drink—it felt good to be Point Zero.


	7. Fragile Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl receives a doorwing injury, the mechs from his cadre reflect on it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly darker story, includes dark thoughts and minor wound description...

It was haunting, seeing him like that. Prowl was on a medical berth, the rest of the room was empty save for the frantic warning and update pings coming from the spark-support systems.

Who knew doorwings were so integral?

Sunstreaker stood by his brother, both were unusually quiet, but this was an unusual situation. 

Sunstreaker half thought Prowl would lunge off the cot and start huffing about getting back to work or comm.ing orders or asking for numbers. Only a few other bots had been severely wounded in the battle, but Prowl’s sudden exclusion might as well have cleaved the entire Autobot cadre in half.

The Twins shuddered as they thought of the battle. There was no hint that anything would go wrong.

Sideswipe and his brother flung themselves into the scree first, pummeling Decepticons and forcing their way father onto enemy territory.

Bluestreak’s rifle fire ocassionally blasted by, taking down any stray Cons that missed Sides’ and Sunny’s fists. 

Other Autobots ducked in behind them, using their fierce fighting momentum to weave their way farther into the crowd of Cons and reach the spark—Megatron.

The tyrant was laughing maniacally, taunting the Prime and sending blasts from his fusion canon right off into his ow army. 

It was almost comically sad to see a once greatly feared and respected enemy go insane. It was common knowledge that Megatron lost himself a long time ago, but none dared to vent a glyph about it. It was taboo to bring it up.

The ground-rattling stomp of a large pede interrupted the Twins’ onslaught. The looked up—one beamed, the other straightened—to see the colossal form of Devastator come into play.

Autobots all around swelled into a battle-hungry frenzy as Devastator’s other pede was kicked off into the abdominal plates of Bruticus. Sideswipe had idly wondered how the Cons attached to Prowl felt about attacking mechs from their true faction, but tossed the thought away to the heat of battle once more.

The Cons were gradually being pushed back farther. Sideswipe could almost hear the ring of imminent retreat.

When _it_ finally happened, the Twins were shocked into stillness.

* * *

Bluestreak shuddered as he paced outside the medbay, mumbling to himself and clutching at his helm. He’d been kicked out a few cycles earlier after accidentally knocking over one of the monitors and making it flat-line.

Smokescreen wasn’t doing that much better. He stood at the other side of the hall, arms crossed tightly enough to make his joints creak. His pede ticked and made a constant _taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap_ in time with Bluestreaks’s hurried whispers and prayers.

Smokescreen didn’t believe in Primus. He nearly regretted that fact—he wished he could pray for his brother too.

It had happened as if in slow-motion.

Defensor’s shot went wide—Devastator was breaking back down into the individual mechs when he— _they_ —realized the friendly-fire was aimed at them.

Smokescreen’s arms tightened around himself as he thought of the way the bitty combiners turned in vain to pull their Head away.

Then, suspended in the air, they gave every soldier on the field the opportunity to see the beam ravage Prowl’s doorwing before he could move himself.

Smokescreen had never heard Prowl scream before.

He hoped on his spark that he would never have to hear it again.

The battle had froze; the gestalt crumpled to the ground. Prowl was knocked offline before he even hit the dirt.

Bluestreak heaved a shriek that rang across the armies. He stumbled from his high perch on an abandoned and rusting ship, scraping his plates as he fell, but he got up and began to run.

Defensor scrambled, First Aid peeled off from the group first—the frantic, fearful stamping of his pedes bumping in sync with the energon rushing in Smokescreen’s audials.

Thinking back on it, Smokescreen could only remember being on one side of the field, a blur, then suddenly he was falling to his servos and knees as he crawled closer to Prowl on the other side.

Bluestreak was being held back by Blades, who was explaining in stutters and hiccups that Prowl would get even more damaged if Bluestreak moved him too fast or held him too tightly. 

First Aid had flipped Prowl over, the smoking, singed circuits that sparked and wriggled from what was left of Prowl’s doorwing made him want to purge. Smokescreen reached out with shaking servos and cupped Prowl’s faceplates.

Even offline, Prowl held the expression of a mech who just swallowed poison.

* * *

It was agony to wait.

Jazz wasn’t unused to waiting—waiting for cover, waiting to back-up, waiting for an opportunity to strike—but waiting for a very close comrade to wake from near-termination was never easy.

The worst part was that the mech who’d shot him down was in the next room sobbing. First Aid’s medic coding—and his own moral sympathy—was punishing him for dealing a near-fatal blow to a mech sure to be filed under “patient”. Jazz felt that the medic’s sorrow was punishment enough. The little bot didn’t know what he was doing most days, why should Jazz blame him? And yet…

Beneath his visor, Jazz’s optics tracked the steady beeps and jumps on each monitor. Ratchet had been working nonstop for three orns just to get Prowl back into this semi-stable condition. Jazz, to both let his old friend take a break and to watch over a mech precious to him, offered to stay and look after the monitors.

So there he was, sitting on a stool right next to a mech who he’d been through thick and thin to protect, and thinking about all the ways he couldn’t help.

It was a terrible feeling—to be useless. If Prowl were online he’d tell Jazz that he was useful—and that a compliment that would be—but he wasn’t. 

Jazz was alone with his thoughts.

Jazz definitely felt worthless when he heard Prowl had been shot down, forcing both sides to retreat. Jazz was in the Decepticon base when he heard the news. He wanted to yank his servos out of the control console and ‘port himself to Prowl’s side. He didn’t.

Instead, he stayed and collected information while leaving little code-breaks that would build up and cause problems for the Cons. Jazz stayed when he was done and both factions had retreated back to their bases.

Avoiding the cassettes was easy with the numbness Jazz embodied when he was pinged with an update—Prowl was in medbay.

His imperceptible stalking led him through the ventilation system, right over the “throne” room. Megatron was hallucinating in his seat, half-awake and snarling at ghosts. 

Jazz eased the vent open and poised over it. 

His servo reached behind him, closed around the handle of his energon blade—[ _. . . P R O W L . . . I S . . . S T A B L E . . ._ ]—removed his servo, placed the vent back, removed all traces of his visit, and left.

Now, back at base, he traced a servo under Prowl’s optic, following the sharo lines of his faceplates. Jazz’ other servo was cradled around Prowl’s helm. He pressed his derma against Prowl’s chevron. When he pulled away, Prowl’s optics were cycling open.

* * *

Sideswipe held Sunstreaker’s arm firmly—if he let go, he knew both Twins would storm over and start a fight—which Prowl really didn’t need at the moment.

The slimy Cons were putting their servos all over him. Sure, it was under the guise of helping him around, but Prowl didn’t need help… Well, not as much _help_ as the Cons were forcing on him. Their giant green and purple servos moved all over him—touching his plating, seams, rubbing streaks from his dulled polish—

Sunstreaker’s engine growled lowly and he coiled with rage. Sideswipe started to mirror the fierce, protective gesture of his twin, but stopped.

He squeezed Sunstreaker’s arm one more time before letting go. The yellow and black twin immediately checked to make sure his turbobull-helmed brother hadn’t ruined his paint in anyway before catching on to Sideswipe’s pointed servo.

He looked, saw Prowl surrounded by the Con scum, and pursed his derma again. However, this time, he paid more attention to what Sideswipe was trying to show him.

The servos were roving, but they didn’t touch to claim or humiliate. They guided with gentle touches, steadied with the block of their frames. Anywhere Prowl needed them, they were there. The bare stump of Prowl’s doorwing fluttered wildly, trying to find balance, but stilled when the Cons pressed close to Prowl’s frame.

Prowl grumbled and growled, but his engine puttered pitifully and his swats were half-sparked at best. He tugged them where he needed them and allowed their servos to linger on his plating.

Sunstreaker’s own servos clenched and unclenched, but he stayed at his brother’s side. He made a mental note to offer— _demand_ —to help Prowl polish. Sideswipe smirked at him.

* * *

“I really don’t see the problem they’re not doing anything bad I’m just relieved that they’re helping him and look he’s doing to much better than before at least he can go a few paced before he needs help you know?”

Smokescreen hummed. Bluestreak wasn’t wrong. It was a great relief to see Prowl moving around on his own again—even if he still needed something to steady himself with. 

For the past decaorn or so, the Constructicons had been acting as Prowl’s personal walkers. They tottered around him wherever he went—if it had been awkward trying to visit before, it was even worse with the Cons backing them up from getting too close or looming threateningly over him and Bluestreak.

Smokescreen huffed, looking at the subject of their conversation. Prowl was walking a bit shakily. He would stride forward a few steps before stumbling—at which point ten consecutive servos would shoot out to press against him and guide him back into stability.

What shocked Smokescreen the most was the fact that Prowl would grab back at them—to push himself back into place on his own, but it was a mutual touch all the same.

When he stumbled, there wasn’t the same panicked, shameful look on his faceplates that he had during the early stages of his recovery. At some point along the line, Prowl—consciously or not—began to trust the Cons not to let him fall.

He knew they would catch him.

“At least they’re being good to him if they weren’t you know we’d get Prowl and move out you know?”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen hummed, peering after the group. “We would.”

* * *

Jazz grinned knowingly, his optics twinkled and his vocals lifted as he laughed. 

Prowl stood across from him, but the light in his optics belied his stern posture and crossed arms. Jazz loved the way they seemed to cradle the other mech’s bumper, and the way they slid along the seams of his headlights, but most of all, Jazz loved the way his doorwings flared behind him.

Yes, _wings_.

A joor came and went. Ratchet and a team of medics imported from a Praxian-neutral sector rebuilt and reattached a second doorwing for Prowl. The enforcer had taken to the new kibble was easily as a sparkling took to their carrier.

After only one or two missteps, prowl glided across the medbay, declared himself better, thanked the medical team, and left.

Ratchet stormed around the base trying to find the newly repaired Praxian only to give up after seeing him speeding away from the base in his alt-mode. Not that Jazz blamed him—for a police-bot like Prowl, never mind that he had a Tac Net—being locked out of vehicle-mode could drive a bot into hysteria.

As soon as Jazz heard Prowl was leaving base, he took off in his own alt-mode.

He managed to get in front of Prowl. When he did, he circled around before revving his engine in challenge. Prowl accelerated and Jazz drove off. 

The road burned warm and smooth under Jazz’ tire-treads. Gravel and dirt crackled at his sides. Jazz shifted gear into a smooth, constant speed, and Prowl—in a fit of playfulness likely derived from having his doorwing back—nudged Jazz’ aft with his bumper. Jazz honked and increased speed until both were skidding and bumping at they curved and swerved around the Ark. Red Alert was no doubt having a melt-down at the sight of them breaking code from his cameras.

The two mechs played chase until the sun went down. They came back to the base covered in organic dust, scrapes and road-burn to find the Constructicons sitting at the side of the Ark. The five of them seemed to be pulling and pushing each other in excitement.

Prowl transformed back to root-mode and moved towards the,. As he passed, they parted and followed behind. Jazz felt a smile tug at his faceplates as he watched the big ex-cons drool after the swaying doorwings.

Back in the present, Jazz tracked those wings himself—in one part because of their beauty, another to check or any stutters of kinks that might need to be fixed. Jazz would be watching out for those wings from now on. 

With the Constructicons hovering nearby, Jazz knew that Prowl may one day stumble, but he would never fall.


	8. Hold Me Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons want cuddles, but Prowl is always too busy!

Bots stared as they passed. In Prowl’s servos was a datapad, his digits worked diligently over it, correcting and revising as he went. In Long Haul’s servos was Prow, fiddling with the aforementioned datapad.

The enforcer wasn’t splayed across the ex-con’s shoulder struts or cuddled like a sparkling in his arms—that would be humiliating. Instead, Long Haul held him at the joint of his stabilizing-joint. The back of Prowl’s thighs rested lightly on Long Haul’s forearms as they passed by the gawking masses,

The gestalt agreed earlier that they weren’t getting enough Prowl-Time—not that it was Prowl’s fault—not at all. Prowl was a very busy mech with very important and time-consuming work to do.

To fix the lack of Prowl-Time, each of the Constructicons would take turns bringing Prowl from one area to another. It was—unsurprisingly—Scavenger’s idea to carry their foreman to insure the most responsible usage of Prowl-distribution. Using Scavenger’s clever little method, each mech could get as much of Prowl as they could within such a limited period.

Since that time, the Constructicons had been cycling every shift to get their allotted Prowl-Time.

Long Haul started off the cycle by cradling the back of Prowl’s thighs in his servos, Prowl’s back facing the hall as he looked over datapads.

Hook would take Prowl from his office, arms constricting around Prowl’s middle—just loose enough for him to turn and look behind.

Hook then transferred Prowl right into Scavenger’s eager servos, one arm would tuck beneath the tactician while his other servo pressed at the small of his back to ensure stability.

Mixmaster took Prowl back from his meeting. Prowl perched on his shoulder, one servo would hold onto Prowl’s waists, the other handed Prowl a cube.

At the end of the orn, Bonecrusher brought Prowl back to the gestalt’s shared hab, both arms wrapped behind his smaller mate, petting the edge of his doorwings.

Prowl’s engine purred in the embrace and his optics dimmed. 

Of all the things he may regret, allowing his gestalt to have this time would never be one of them.


	9. The Perfect Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gestalt argues over the perfect shade for bonding-paint...

“FF6961?”

“No—“

“Absolutely not—“

“It isn’t even a real shade ‘a red—”

“8C1717 is the way we should go—”

“That’s way too dark, it won’t pop—”

“990000?”

“Close, but I still think it’s too dark—”

“Who says we should even _do_ red? I say a nice 996515 would serve as a great undertone for gold—”

“ _No_ —”

“It’s not _proper_ , we’re trying to—”

“Hey, I was just saying as an _undertone_ —”

“ _Using any shade like that so early would scandalize those old ‘bots_ —”

“Who cares!? We’re not courting _them_ —”

“No, but that Prime’s basically Prowl’s watcher, right?”

“B76E79—”

“ _Scavenger_ , that is _not_ a _real red_ —”

“FF0033…”

The bickering paused.

In the corner, Prowl sat reading his pad as if he hadn’t interjected at all.

“Oh, yeah—sounds great—”

“No problem, Prowl—”

“We’ll get right on it—”

“The perfect shade—”

“Oh, it matches your chevron!”

The Constructicons waddled around in excitement, checking the paints on the table anew.

From his seat, Prowl hid a smile behind his datapad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bots speaking (in order): Scavenger, Bonecrusher, Hook, Long Haul, Bonecrusher, Hook, Mixmaster, Hook, Long Haul, Mixmaster, Hook, Long Haul, Mixmaster, Long Haul, Mixmaster, Scavenger, Long Haul, Prowl, Long Haul, Bonecrusher, Mixmaster, Hook, Scavenger.


	10. Seeker-kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak learns a little bit about his involvement in Prowl and Starscream's off-the-record dealings...

“Hi, Prowl!”

Prowl’s features softened as he moved back from the door to welcome in his creation.

“It’s good to see you I know I visited you just a few orns ago but that was _then_ and I always oh hello there Prowl you let the Constructicons into your hab it’s about time not that I’m saying you should’ve done it sooner I’m just saying I’m happy you’re all finally getting along—“

Prowl nodded in understanding as he guided Bluestreak to the couch. 

The Constructicons were sprawled around the room. Bonecrusher was on the berth, napping as usual. Long Haul and Scavenger were on the other side of the berth, leaning against each other and looking at Scavenger’s trinkets. Mixmaster was at Prowl’s work desk, writing down equations and formulas while Hook stood over him and mumbled advisements at him.

“Sit,” Prowl coaxed his energetic ward.

Bluestreak sat at the edge of the couch, his legs kicking, servos curling and uncurling. “Hey so Smokey and I have been thinking about getting you a new chair because we know you’re had this one for a long time like a long long time like maybe even before the war okay maybe not that long but yeah we were thinking you needed something a bit more comfortable for your wings so we thought we might buy—“

Prowl huffed good-naturedly, “You and Smokescreen have to no such thing. I can furnish my hab perfectly well.” 

Prowl’s optics trailed over his gestalt-mates. They appeared busy, but he knew—by the thoughtful pulses of the bond—that they heard Bluestreak’s comment and were formulating plans of making an entirely new, freshly padded couch entirely for him. 

The idea both flattered and frightened him. 

Prowl would be hiding what little furniture he had while he still had the chance.

Sitting down, Prowl pulled Bluestreak closer. The sniper sat half on Prowl, half on the couch. “You’re so strange Prowl you buy me and Smokey—“

“'Smokey and I’,” Prowl corrected automatically.

“ _Smokey and I_ get stuff from you all the time why shouldn’t we return the favor?”

Prowl pet his servo over Bluestreak’s helm-crest. “It’s my duty to take care of you and Smokescreen. If I ever were ever to shirk in my duty to you I would pass the responsibility to the next bot—from myself—most equipped to dealing with you and Smokescreen.”

“Who?”

“Jazz. Then Prime, Ratchet, Inferno, Starscream, and so on.”

Bluestreak—and several of the Constructicons—jolted. “Wait— _Starscream_!?”

“Yes,” Prowl intoned as neutrally as he could. “The officers aboard both the Ark and the ‘ _Lost Light_ ’ are too unstable for me to trust with your safety. For example, Ultra Magnus—though a mech of utmost security and law—would not be able to give you or Smokescreen the core-requirement of care-taking.”

“And what would _that_ be?”

Prowl leaned closer, “Love.”

“And _Starscream_ loves me?” Bluestreak ogled at Prowl in incredulity.

Prowl chuffed. “He loves you as a ruler loves his people, but more importantly, he loves you as a seeker loves seeker-kin.”

Bluestreak’s mouth smoothed and his optics glimmered in understanding, “Oh because we’re Praxians!”

Prowl nodded, “Even during the war, there was an agreement between us and the seekers under Starscream’s command that none would harm ‘ _the youngling_ '.”

“Hey I’m not _that_ young I’m no newspark—“

“No, you’re not,” Prowl agreed amicably. “However, you were and _are_ one of the youngest bots in the war effort. New life—no matter what form it took—had to be protected.”

“No matter what?”

“Yes. If the Decepticons had won the war or captured you, you would have been released immediately or sheltered away from other mechs—Autobot or Decepticon—for your own protection. You would be held until a time when it was safe for you to be reintegrated into whatever world the Decepticons decided to build.”

At this point, the Constructions weren’t even pretending that they weren’t eavesdropping. They had turned towards Prowl and Bluestreak to better glean the information.

“Wow that’s crazy—“

"It would’ve been the same precaution taken with any other young Praxian or seekerling.” A thoughtful moment passed. “Just so you know, I would’ve handed your protection over to Megatron before I ever relinquished it to Sideswipe or Sunstreaker.”

Bluestreak reared back, glyphs drooling out from his glossa about the _unfairness_ of it all and _Megatron_ , unaware of the blatant falsity of the statement.

Prowl gently patted the helm of his huffing, puffing creation with a slight smirk.

The Constructicons settled back around the hab and basked in the amusement roiling across the bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may add a chapter later about Bluestreak meeting up with Starscream and acting like a little shit because he knows now that he can get away with it...


	11. A Faint Pulse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl feels something in the bond...

Prowl let out a quick ex-vent as he leaned back in his chair. He carefully kneaded his temples.

Just because the war ended didn’t mean the busy-work did.

As he settled back he felt a supportive flutter thrum across the bond. Prowl allowed his struts to drop and straighten.

He sent out his own pulse of reassurance to his gestalt-mates.

It was met, concerningly, with pleased confusion.

Prowl went rigid again as he locked up and inspected the bond.

Now that he was thinking about it, he could feel a clear distinction between his gestalt bond and the other pulse.

Searchingly, Prowl prodded the smaller, lighter extension, but could only trace it back to himself. He tried again. No change. Each inspection concluded that Prowl himself was the “outside force”, but how—

The bond pulsed again, but this time Prowl felt it _physically_.

He threw himself out of his office, making it to his habsuite in record time. He entered his private wash racks and stood before the mirror. His chest plates folded away at his command and he felt the atmosphere rush from his vents.

Circling around the coronae of his spark was a smaller spark, flitting and pulsing happily.

Prowl had been kindled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I write a follow up on the gestalt trying to care for the sparkling? I think I should.........


	12. Good Old Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons surprise Prowl with donuts and a police chase to remind him of good old times…

Prowl knew something was off the moment he booted back up.

There was an obvious lack of green-and-purple frames taking up all the space in his habsuite. Everything was clean, tidy, and organized.

It was horrifying.

Usually, Prowl would be ecstatic at the cleanly state of the room, but living with five largely-proportionate ex-cons didn’t exactly leave a room untouched. Accidents and fumbling servos never failed to produce and leave messes of varying severity all over the hab.

Seeing everything so empty was more than a little worrying.

The only sign that Prowl hadn’t gone off the deep-end was the white box on his work-desk.

Prowl fluidly sat up and moved off the berth. His pedesteps left no crunch or echo as he came to stand before the desk. 

On the box was a note reading, _”For our favorite Prowl”_ in blocky, wobbly characters.

It was oddly charming.

Prowl put aside the note and opened up the box.

His glossa suddenly became very heavy in his mouth. 

In the box were eight donuts. Five of the eight were a mix-match of green and purple frosting with red sprinkles. The Constructicons. The last three were black and white, black and grey, and black and blue. Each of the last three had ornamental frosting resembling wings—doorwings.

The thought pulled a smile onto his faceplates before the Tac Net smoothed it back out again.

Prowl took one of the purple and green donuts, held it up for inspection, and popped a piece into his mouth.

Receptors tingled with enjoyment. A nice, classic donut with quaint taste and marvelous quality. The underlying bitterness spoke volumes of both the Constructicons’ perceptiveness, and talent. The perfect gift.

Trying hard not to shove the rest right onto his glossa, Prowl carefully selected and ate each donut. His methodical ingestion quickly decimated the treats until naught was left but the box… And the frosting.

Prowl held himself back from checking the room. He already knew no one else was with him, and there was really nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever camera Red Alert had in his hab already recorded the Donut Destruction a few kliks prior, what was a bit more?

Prowl picked up the box and sat on his desk—an indulgence he hardly ever gave himself and never allowed his associates—barring Red Alert—to see. 

A digit dipped into the box and scooped out some green frosting. He popped it in his mouth and hummed at the taste. He repeated this motion until all frosting was gone from the box. Prowl wished he knew where Red’s camera was so he could give it a wink.

Prowl shook himself of his uncharacteristic thought. 

He pursed his derma the slightest bit as he reviewed the contents of the donuts—magnesium, copper, energon, spiridium, nothing that would inebriate him.

It must’ve been the rarity of it that discombobulated him.

Prowl folded the box back—neat and flat, before putting it into the repurposing bin.

He was, unfortunately, free for most of the orn—Ratchet’s orders—so he would endeavor to find and thank his gestalt.

Prowl prodded at the bond, the Constructicons pulsed back excitedly from different latitudes, but were otherwise in the same central area.

Prowl took off from the Ark. The ex-cons were at the back of the space-station—now safely removed from the mountainside—at the supply dock.

After receiving such a sweet present, Prowl wasn’t truly expecting what he saw.

Boxes were uncapped and hazardously stacked, materials were laid out atop their containers, and Prowl’s gestalt was wheeling around, disturbing the dirt.

Prowl’s lights and sirens came on automatically—the bond seemed to flip around in anticipation and the Constructicons sped off.

Prowl raced after them in confusion, attempting to herd them to a halt.

The larger construction vehicles swerved as well as they were able to—Long Haul and Bonecrusher—managing to overwhelm Prowl into backing off by blocking their smaller gestalt-mates from the irritated enforcer.

It was a nano-klik later when Prowl realized that they were doing—this was a chase.

Prowl gripped by a new idea, pretended to drag—skidding and fishtailing after Bonecrusher once more forced himself between Prowl and Scavenger. 

Prowl executed a roll in his vehicle-mode—which did hurt a bit, but it was nothing under the lift of his plan—scraping his side as he laid on the side of the path.

The shock that streaked across the bond was laughably sweet. The Constructicons scrambled, transforming into root-mode and back-tracking as quickly as they could, panic in their visors.

Prowl made a show of puttering and pinging as the heat steamed off his plating.

“P-Prowl!?” Scavenger fell before him, servos poised to help him back to his tires.

Prowl gunned his engine as he transformed, startling his gestalt-mates, and slapped a pair of debilitating-cuffs on Scavenger.

Bonecrusher realized what happened a klik too late, and Prowl threw his pedes from beneath him before cuffing him as well.

The other three ex-cons booked it—two taking off in alt-mode, which was the only thing that saved them.

Prowl managed to tackle and restrain Hook before he could shift and on went the cuffs. He felt exhilaration surge from across the bond from his stubborn mates—those both free and cuffed.

Prowl fired his sirens back up and raced after the last two Constructicons. He drove his way past them and transformed just as they grasped what he was planning. Prowl took both construction vehicles by their kibble and lifted them to his sides before locking his joints. Captured.

Though Prowl marched them all back into the Ark in cuffs, there was no humiliation. In fact, the Constructicons seemed victorious as they filed in behind the tactician.

Prowl felt proud of them too. They would be spending their brig-time in his habsuite. Just, _of course_ , as a precaution.


	13. Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl thinks about his recent weight-gain…

Large green servos rubbed his middle—he would’ve swatted them away, but the feeling was nice on his too-tight plating. 

Since rations were done away with, Prowl had been gradually accumulating more weight than his frame could comfortably hold. 

There were several reasons for Prowl’s current predicament. 

The first of many was the fact that Prowl greatly enjoyed fueling—additives and tints made nearly everything enjoyable. The feeling of a full tank was also very pleasant, and Prowl was—though hidden well—a mech of comfort.

The next reason was that excess fueling was a habitual thing for him. During the war, Prowl’s Tac-Net was running nearly every available function, preventative order, statistic and plot that could be calculated. The Tac-Net burned through energon as easily as oxygen on this Primus-slagged planet combusted. If Prowl didn’t fuel, he would’ve been in danger of shutting down to save himself—which was lethal in those times. 

However, the most prominent and on-going reason lay with Mixmaster.

Mixmaster, a genius and extremely persuasive bargainer, continued to vex and please Prowl with extraordinary mixes of all kinds. Treats and goodies thought to have disappeared during the war were created with cruel single-mindedness. Whatever Mixmaster made, Prowl had to test. He couldn’t bring himself to turn down his gestalt-mate... Or the treats…

So there he was, huffing and struggling to sit up while the rest of his gestalt hovered nearby, pushing him back down gently and telling him to wait.

Prowl had been waiting for orns already. He honestly had no issue with the new weight—the soft plating was actually quite welcome, it just needed to be distributed across his frame so he wouldn’t have to sacrifice any mobility… Speaking of which—

Prime, in all his sympathetic glory, was sending for new alt-specs that would fit in Prowl’s extra-filling, but it would take another decaorn or so to arrive.

Prowl knew that Optimus could’ve had it sent across the HUD, but he had a suspicious feeling that the other mech didn’t want it to come that fast.

Somehow, Prowl’s sleepy, overstuffed state was endearing to him.

Prowl felt betrayed.

Oh, look, Mixmaster was holding out a treat. One more couldn’t hurt…


	14. Happy Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl celebrates “Happy Sub-Zero Thermal Temperatures Garnished by a Fevered Desire to Reconnect with One’s Spiritual Maker Day”, as learned from Earth. The Constructicons join in…

The Constructicons watched with mounting concern as Prowl brought out another box. 

The hab was filled with boxes of all sizes and colors. Mixmaster and Scavenger would’ve been more interested in the intricate designs and wrappings on the boxes if they weren’t so afraid of what they symbolized.

They looked at each other as Prowl stacked a few more.

_Is he leaving?_

_Why would he?_

_There’s no reason for him to move out!_

_Except…_ Scavenger tugged at Mixmaster. _How angry did we make him the other orn?_

The Constructicons stilled.

Yesterday…

Yesterday they spilled half a bottle of engex on Prowl and the floor. The engex was so potent that it managed to stain the metal, even after Prowl threatened—err, _forcefully encouraged_ —them to clean the floor.

_Would Prowl leave over something like that?_

…

_… Yes._

The ex-cons fidgeted and grumbled among themselves as they thought.

_Maybe he’s moving us all out to a new hab? The floor’s got a stain and it’s gotta be pretty hard to fit all of us in one little Autobot room at once, so…?_

Considering looks were passed around.

It was true. They could simply be relocating to a habsuite with a stainless interior and more space to house the entire gestalt—the ex-Decepticons were larger than the average Autobot as well.

_… Does that mean **we** should be packing?_

A slightly louder _thump_ startled them out of their concentration. Prowl had dropped one of the boxes very pointedly and was staring at them. 

They abruptly remembered that they hadn’t really been blocked themselves from him during their conversation. 

Prowl softly rolled his optics.

He kneeled down before the box and took the lid off, revealing odd, shining, shimmering objects in a multitude of sizes and shapes.

Hook grabbed Scavenger before he could lunge at the box.

Prowl took out an ornate hanger with several shelves and hooks, it was completely made up of metal wiring that swirled and twisted to sustain shape. It had a wide “base” and tapered tip. One could loosely describe it as triangular.

Prowl attached it to the wall and began to put the items from the box onto it.

While the Constructicons didn’t want to ruin whatever special ritual Prowl was participating in, it had to be asked, “What’re ya doin’?”

Surprisingly enough, Prowl smiles over his shoulder and held out one of the objects. Hook released Scavenger, who immediately—but carefully—grabbed it and began to examine it from all angles.

“Back on Earth, humans and Autobots were…” Prowl seemed to swallow his glyphs, “ _Friends_ …” He shook himself. “During this time, we learned much about Earth and the absurd practices of its inhabitants. However, there were a few that were… Quite agreeable.”

Prowl stood, handing each gestalt-mate a new trinket. “There is a festival of sorts shared by many of the humans during the sub-zero thermal seasons. It goes by many designations—Hanukkah, First Star, Christmas, Ramadan, Last Sabbath, Kwanzaa—but no matter where, it’s often called _’Winter Holiday’_.”

The Constructicons raptly watched their foreman as he explained, pacing before the decorative wires. “During this season, there are many festive practices. Some favorites among the locals we were acquainted with were: the stuffing and devouring of prey, exchanging gifts, combusting tubular wax to produce lights or fanciful scents, decorating,” Prowl gestured towards the decorations in their servos. 

“And…” Prowl shortly bit his derma. “… Spending time with loved ones.” The Constructicons gaped as Prowl flushed a shade of pink _just_ lighter than the energon that flowed through his frame. He reset his vocalizer, “So, if you all wouldn’t mind…?” 

His servo swept out and motioned to the rest of the hab, filled with boxes upon boxes of decals, adornments and ornaments.

As one, the ex-cons stepped forward, straightened their struts, and got to work.


	15. My Construction Workers and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humanformers! Prowl’s day off in interrupted by the loud construction team outside—he goes out to ask them to quiet down but is roped into a date. He’s in denial…

Prowl grit is teeth. 

He’d been fighting the urge to go outside and stop the racket himself for the past _three hours_. The grinding, reverberating rattle of every movement only intensified the aching in his head. 

His _one_ day-off and the universe was sending him a final _fuck-you_ before his headache did him in.

It figured.

Voices shouted from outside, “Long Haul, back it up, would you?”

“Ah, quit yer hankerin’, Old Man—“

“ _Old Man_? And how d’you figure that, ya green little—“

“That’s enough! Scavenger, put the beams over there!”

“Got it, I just—oh fuck—“

The loud clangs of heavy, reinforced metal made Prowl want to die.

“Scav!”

“They’re _everywhere_ —”

“Pick ‘em up, pick ‘em up!”

“Oh my God, Scavenger—hey, _hey get that one_ —”

A loud _crunch_ sounded just outside the house. 

_No._

Prowl threw off the covers as he rushed over. He flung open his front door and froze.

Five large construction vehicles and their drivers were parked in front of his house. They puffed, but were finally, dreadfully, silent… 

At the cost of Prowl’s property…

The mailbox had been crushed under the _one_ beam the construction team failed to catch.

Prowl cautiously stepped over, careful to avoid the splintered wood. The metal half-cylinder he’d decorated with his nephews, Bluestreak and Smokescreen, was—thankfully—unharmed. However, Prowl would have to buy an entirely new wooden post for it to stand on.

Prowl picked up the box and turned to glare at the perpetrators only to find their eyes all glued to him. Oh. Right. He was still in his night clothes—boxers and a thin tank-top… No matter.

Prowl put one fist on his hip, widened his stance, and put on a very stern expression. Luckily for them, the construction workers cowered before him, they wouldn't be feeling the full might of his rage... _Today_.

“Oh my God—we’re so sorry,” the smallest chimed—though he was still taller and wider than Prowl would ever be—climbing out of his vehicle to pad closer. “We really didn’t mean to wreck your mailbox!”

“Yeah, sorry,” grumbled a taller worker with sunglasses on.

They all eventually came over, murmuring apologies and sympathetic pats on the shoulder.

“Hey, uh, look,” another tall one began, “We’re sorry ‘bout all this damn mess. We’ll clean it up an’, uh, maybe we can talk after, y’know?”

Prowl pursed his lips. “… Very well.”

They nodded and got to work, picking up splinters and carrying the beam away in an amazing show of physical ability. If Prowl were any less angry, he would be impressed.

He put the mailbox away and brought out a broom to sweep away the worst of the mess, but a passing worker with tense lines on his face took it. “We apologize most sincerely. Please, allow us to do the rest?”

Prowl’s irritation reluctantly faded. He nodded.

With all of them hard at work, Prowl found it hard to stay mad. He went back inside shortly, taking some bottled water from his refrigerator.

The last of the wood-chips were being thrown away when he came back out. While most of the construction workers came to get a bottle, the smaller one from before bent down, picked a pebble from Prowl’s garden, and put it in his pocket. Prowl didn’t comment.

“Thanks fer this,” the large worker with the sunglasses motioned with his water. “We didn’t mean ta fuck up yer mailbox, or nuthin’.”

“Language,” hissed another man with nozzles and hoses sticking out of his pack.

“Ah, be quiet, you!” The larger grumbled back, yanking his shoulder from the other’s paltry—in comparison—grip. He looked back at Prowl. “So, uh… We just cleaned fer ya an’ everythin’, but how ‘bout we get ‘cha somethin’ ta eat? Ta… Ta make up, ya know?”

Speculative glances and whispers were exchanged between the five of them before they turned to look at Prowl expectantly.

“… Fine.”

That was how Prowl found himself sitting in a booth with five large construction men in a cheap fast food restaurant. The property hummed with hungry, impatient people and their screaming children. From across the room, Prowl could hear and feel the sizzle of the burners and the _grease_ that permeated every inch of the restaurant. Area on chairs, tables and floors were sticky and stained with questionable materials. The place was a public health hazard.

At the behest of the bastards who’d demolished his mail box with a metal beam, he ordered a burger.

As they ate and slurped their own food, they made small talk with him.

“You like your fries?”

“You’ve a good wardrobe, hmm?”

“Ya got any kids?”

“You a cop a somethin’?”

“You like this chocolate or vanilla better?”

The questions grated. He answered every one of them.

When they finished, they began packing and throwing away their trash. The small one stuffed a handful of straws into his coat pocket. No comment.

“Can we have your number?”

 _No._ “Yes.” 

_What was he doing?_ Prowl took one of the napkins and began to write. 

_He didn’t want to see them again._ He flourished the last number. 

_He wouldn’t dare._ He handed them the napkin. 

_Fine, then he just wouldn’t answer his phone ever again._ They smiled. 

_Oh no._

“Hey, maybe we’ll see you tomorrow?” mumbled the smallest of the construction workers.

“Perhaps you will,” Prowl found himself saying before he could help it.

As they all walked out, Prowl was given a kiss from each of the hard-hatted brutes.

They waved as they left.

… 

He was doomed.


	16. Starscream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak visits his—fourth, fifth?—god-creator, Starscream…

“Hello!” Bluestreak chirped, bouncing into the office.

Starscream did a double-take. Another. “… Are you real?”

“What do you mean?” Bluestreak queried, suddenly afraid he’d taken Prowl’s comment about Starscream very incorrectly. “I mean I know I’m not the bot everyone wants to hang out with but come on I mean I’m not that bad am I?”

Starscream turned back to his contact on the HUD, “Uh, yeah, we’ll have to talk later, I seem to be busy.” He shut off the screen and looked back over at Bluestreak with a oily smirk. “So, how may I help you, _youngling_?”

Bluestreak hid his own smirk and bounded over, hanging off Starscream’s arm. “Can you take me out Prowl and Smokey are really busy and I wanted to visit and it’s so nice to see Cybertron again it’s so pretty!” Starscream stared down at him. “And I wanted to see the science labs please pretty please with *EthySlivers on top!”

“Uh—" Starscream laughed suddenly, “My, my, aren’t _you_ the excitable one? You want _me_ , leader of Cybertron, _Commander of the Seeker Armada_ —to take you on a little _energon-run_ and entertain you with _science_?” he mockingly pouted.

Bluestreak feigned ignorance. “Well yea why would I wanna go with anyone else?” Starscream’s optics went white. _Got him_. Bluestreak took in their height difference and held his arms out. “Carry me?”

Shocked into a complacent stupor, Starscream had to choice but to obey.

Bluestreak hid his smile in Starscream’s cockpit.

He tilted his helm up just slightly and widened his optics in a caricature of innocence. “Can we go get some warm energon and iron-flakes from Bolts and Grain I heard they’re really good and I haven’t had any since Praxus when Prowl used to make them for me we actually knew each other before the war did you know that yeah it was considered weird if you didn’t know other Praxians and Prowl was always so great so—“

Starscream was quiet while he held Bluestreak and walked them to Bolts and Grain.

Bluestreak was calculating how much he’d be able to get away with as he chattered. _Prowl wasn’t the only Autobot tactician._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A treat from a great Tarn/Pharma fic, Drinking with the Devil, go check it out! (http://archiveofourown.org/works/2301371/chapters/5062430)


	17. And Baby Makes 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons watch their new creation…

Bonecrusher jolted every time he heard a whirr or click; his attention would snap to the sparkling and his optics would soften behind his visor. 

It wasn’t strange to hear such noises nowadays, but there were times when Bonecrusher would just start to let his processor drift away only for it to never return. Hook called it dissociation. Bonecrusher called it nap-time. Prowl called it an issue—but only in regards to the sparkling.

If Bonecrusher wasn’t “awake” enough to watch the newest member of their unit, there had to be someone else with him if he wanted to keep track of Atlas. Hook was with them that orn.

Hook held Atlas’ in his servos and was making silly little clicking noises to make the little one laugh. Hook would deny his actions to his last day, but it didn’t stop him from doing them now.

Bonecrusher heaved himself up from the floor and noisily trudged his way over. He sat down next to his fussy gestalt-mate and creation.

Bonecrusher reached out and cradled the sparkling in one servo. Atlas made a painfully happy squealing noise and thrust out its small, underdeveloped appendages at him. Obligingly, Bonecrusher stooped over far enough for Atlas to touch his battlemask.

Hook hovered nearby. He knew Bonecrusher wouldn’t squish their creation, but there was an ever present possibility that he would drop Atlas as he nodded off.

However, Bonecrusher was focused.

Atlas had only emerged several decaorns ago, so his protoform was still soft. Little nubs on his back hinted to kibble—perhaps construction-tools or doorwings. 

Hook and Long Haul already had plans for Atlas’ first upgrade—a white and purple frame with green highlights. Prowl already declared the paint tasteful, the seams plausible, and the frame functional. 

A decaorn earlier, no one would’ve predicted Prowl delegating such an important design to _anyone_ , let alone his gestalt-mates. 

After emergence, Prowl might as well have been a different bot. The Tac Net decided that instinctual protocol was best for dealing with the sparkling, and allowed bits and pieces of the carrier-coding to by-pass and take over. 

Prowl wouldn’t let Atlas out of his sight.

If someone had to check Atlas’ stats, it was Prowl. If Atlas needed a bath, Prowl would bathe him. If Atlas needed fueling, Prowl would have Atlas drink energon from his own frame. 

Prowl was officially labeled as a Level Eight Natural Disaster by Ultra Magnus himself during this stage—bots were _reimbursed_ if Prowl happened to absolutely annihilate any of their property. It was a nightmare.

Thus, the Tac Net adjusted the amount of carrier-coding that came through—apparently it didn’t fathom that Prowl would be so forceful in regards to his creation. Creations and coding were everything to Praxians—Prowl wasn’t the odd-one out. The Tac Net might have been made for a Praxian, but it certainly didn’t _know_ Praxians. 

Prowl eventually calmed down, allowing his gestalt and a select few—Prime, Ratchet, Jazz, Ironhide and Inferno—to hold the sparkling.

Within cycles, Atlas had the spark of every mech onboard the Ark.

Bonecrusher tickled at Atlas’ middle. He would be a real looker, one day—just like his carrier. Maybe Atlas would even be as smart as him too. Hook scooted the slightest bit closer and swept his servo over Atlas’ smooth, warm helm.

Good things were in this sparkling’s future, Bonecrusher was sure of it.


	18. Fuck You, Megatron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons have a surprise encounter with the newly reintegrated Captain of the Lost Light, Megatron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: passing mention of interface (nothing explicit literally just the word interface)

Their chatter stopped ominously. Prowl looked over his shoulder to see what had captured their attention, followed the angle of their visors, and understood.

Megatron, likewise, stood frozen at the other end of the bridge. He reset his optics several times, as if to dispel the sight of them—Prowl was all too familiar with the gesture.

Optimus cleared his vocalizer and motioned towards the six of them, “Megatron, I’m sure you remember the Constructicons, and… Prowl…”

Megatron didn’t bother with a verbal answer, not that Prowl could blame him.

The war began to stagnate after the Contructicons were taken out of the fold. With a true gestalt team to survey, Prowl made a soft-virus to break apart the loyalty-coding which vexed the Combaticons, who then immediately left the Decepticons. Other Cons were picked off—it could’ve been from threats, code-breaks or even just good quality energon—as it was, the Decepticon army weakened and was devastated—no pun intended—the last vorn or so until the war ended.

However, as sympathetic as Prowl was, his hatred of Megatron was a hatred of the ages. For everything Megatron had done—no matter his “atonement”—Prowl’s grudge ran deep… As did the spite—

Prowl dismissed Megatron and turned towards his gestalt, “I was thinking of a team building exercise, how does _group interface_ sound?”

The sound of Megatron choking across the hall was very satisfying. Equally satisfying was the blank look on Optimus’ faceplates as he likely contemplating why he bothered at all.

The Constructicons cheered.

“Let’s go,” Prowl commanded, striding forward. As he passed Megatron, he raised an optical ridge, “Funny how they seem to listen to me more than they ever did to you.”

Megatron stared even after the unit had left through the next hall.

Optimus patted his shoulder strut. “Don’t worry, they’re not _too_ loud,” he joked.

Megatron didn’t respond.


	19. Arts and Crafts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arts and crafts time with everyone’s favorite gestalt…

Hook pressed a kiss to Scavenger’s nasal sensor. His faceplates broke out in a wide grin and he surged back over to take Hook in his arms. As he leapt, glitter scattered everywhere.

Mixmaster smiled at the antics of his gestalt-mates as he paused in cutting out another shape from the clay. He nudged Bonecrusher into looking over. The amusement pulsing through the bond showed what his covered faceplates couldn’t. 

Bonecrusher swept both his fussy gestalt–mates into his arms. Hook cursed and struggled while Scavenger cuddled as close as he could.

Long Haul rolled his optics fondly as he helped Mixmaster mold a new piece of clay.

Sure, Prowl would be irritated to see the glitter, tinsel and ornamental shrapnel everywhere, but at least he’d appreciate their effort—

“ _Urk_ —“ a crunching noise sounded from where Hook was buried beneath Bonecrusher.

—Probably…


	20. Hook Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons hook up with Prowl…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very very slight sexual themes nothing explicit

The Constructicons looked up as Prowl entered the hab. They were in a loose circle; they’d been playing a servo game to pass the time until their foreman arrived.

They stayed on the floor as Prowl went to sit on the far edge of the berth. 

Prowl pulled a small black cube from his sub-space. He slid the first side off, revealing several deep plug-ins.

A plate popped open on Prowl’s side, gaining the hungry attention of his gestalt.

He slowly unspooled his data cable.

Long Haul swallowed audibly.

Prowl pinched the end of the connector and inserted it into one of the six plugs on the cube. He scooted back, and tugged at the bond coaxingly.

Scavenger scrambled up the berth so quickly he nearly fell off the other side.

Long Haul and Bonecrusher crashed into each other several times as they attempted to get into a good spot.

Mixmaster waddled over quickly, pushing Scavenger over so he could get more room.

Hook nearly ran to Prowl’s other side, sidling up to him on the berth.

Scavenger messily unspooled his cable, prompting the others to do the same. The next few kliks were a mess of confused servos and plugs being passed around, uncurled, and untangled before each connector found their way into a port.

The gestalt sank back over each other, smiling and cuddling. Prowl ex-vented softly.

The complete sense of oneness was usually only felt when they were Devastator. Now, they had free processors.

Feelings and images flashed before their optics—a tinkling laugh, content, _Cybertron_.

Silent awe filled the bond.

Prowl closed his optics. He held Hook and Mixmaster close while Scavenger settled half onto his lap. Memories of different times swept them away.

Prowl showed them the open sky and crowded streets, new-builds racing around shops and lots, ignorant of the terror or devastation of war. He would find several of them later, their frames grey in the ruins of Praxus.

The image shifted, a room filled with energon goodies and rookie officers. Prowl was pining after a forensics mech who was flirting with his fourth conjunx.

_A servo rubbed at Prowl’s chassis._

Prowl worked diligently in his office. There was no noise outside because he was out of the way and no one wanted to hang around _Prowl’s_ area. He loved the quiet. He loved the orderly stack of datapads and the worn nubs on his stylus.

_Plating shuffled comfortably._

Prowl was speeding down the road, a high speed pursuit in progress. The transgressor was a flashy racing-frame with a shiny red finish. Prowl would pull ahead only for the mech to fishtail and cut him off. On his seventh swerve, he jerked and crashed. Prowl, grudgingly, refrained from cuffing him while the paramedics were called.

_He felt a snort near his vent._

Prowl was in his home compound, young Praxians fluttered about, trying to replicate their creator’s confidant strides. Prowl’s derma would quirk curiously as he watched. He always wanted sparklings—

_A servo gripped at his thigh plating._

—Someone tapped his doorwing and he spun around. Barricade. He smiled winningly at Prowl, then put his servo on the small of his back. “Eventually,” he’d say. “Eventually.”

_A jolt._

“Osteros!” he proclaimed, showing Prowl their creation. Mesothulas was beside himself with glee, but Prowl felt cold. Mesothulas was getting too attached. Prowl wanted soldiers to fight in this infernal war, not bitlets. His optics tracked the scientist, thinking of a clean way to remove him from the picture.

_Prowl shivered_

He looked out of the balcony, and invented the atmosphere covering his beautiful city, Praxus. The skyline was a mash of powerful corporate buildings and soft apartment complexes. Mechs, femms, lovers, families—they lived in Praxus. They loved Praxus. Because they loved Praxus, they loved Prowl, as he was an extension of it. Its enforcer.

_Derma pressed gently onto his chevron, and he dragged his gestalt with him into whimsy…_


	21. Painting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonecrusher knows how to paint, everyone’s pretty impressed…

For once, the room was quiet. All optics tracked the gentle swipe of the brush. Up. Down. Up. Down. Vertical. Down.

It was always satisfying to see the larger ex-con doing something that could hold his attention. His focus drifted more often than not nowadays, but Ratchet said there was nothing to worry about. Prowl, of course, couldn’t help worrying, but he did give Bonecrusher space and comfort when he needed it. Bonecrusher almost always wanted cuddles.

Now though, prowl couldn’t quite imagine touching the other and ruining his work. He’d gotten far with it.

Bonecrusher slowly and painstakingly lined out Devastator, the greens and purples given a soft blue undertone.

“Reminds me of your optics,” Scavenger murmured, pressing close and offering a fleeting whisper to the others as well.

Bonecrusher stared intently in a one micron by one micron space on the canvas. He flicked his wrist in a precise movement. His frame dwarfed the painting, but the colors and shades that popped out from behind him more than made up for the other’s lack of viewing room.

Bonecrusher jerked. “’M kinda hungry.” He left to get energon from their kitchen dispenser. He didn’t return.

Prowl hung the unfinished painting in the foyer.


	22. Shattered Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shattered Glass, Prowl goes with the Constructicons…

Scrapper sighed at the noisy _clanks_ of frames wrestling.

Watching his gestalt being taken was the worst moment in his functioning. Megatron wouldn’t let him go after them, said it was “too risky”, as if Scrapper cared about the risk.

He waited or _orns_ , unable to do a slagging thing. 

The bond would scream for him, and he took as much of their pain as he could to spare them.

At night, he would lie awake in agony and wish he could hold them—keep them safe somehow. Scrapper had never sobbed before, but he was very close during those times.

What little information that came back from the cassettes’ reconnaissance missions were never enough to form a plan, and what little was brought back sent new night-purges to haunt Scrapper’s over-taxed processor.

Things became so desperate that High Command was forced to attempt retrieval in a hit-and-run.

They attacked an Autobot stronghold, and special ops sneaked into the Autobot HQ during the melee.

They found nothing.

However, something did find _them_.

Scrapper had been battling furiously when he saw it.

Devastator towered large and horrifying over the din. Scrapper had never seen himself outside of Devastator before. It was a disturbing feeling.

A face not his own stared at him from his gestalt’s combined form. A shiver crawled down his spinal strut, but Devastator looked away from him and back down onto the battle.

The Autobots became fevered. The Terror Twins cracked down on their opponents, fighting like gladiators without the limitation of a ring. The Wreckers ran, trampling any mech in their way. Devastator, their faceplates twisting into a furious scowl, roared into the sky and brought their fist down—right on Optimus Prime.

Things descended into chaos from there.

The Autobots began to panic, apparently counting on the newly-formed Devastator to play as their wild-card. 

Autobot medics swarmed the Prime, rushing his crumpled frame off of the battlefield.

Decepticon forces pushed the rest of the Autobots from the field and a cheer went up.

Scrapper rushed towards Devastator as they began to break back into independent mechs. His gestalt, stumbling, wobbly, and wonderfully alive, sprinted towards him. He took them all into his arms and he held them tightly.

He was soothing them over the bond when he felt… _Something_ , and the final mech forming Devastator shakily stood.

An Autobot with black and white plating swayed, obviously fatigued.

Scrapped moved to stand before his gestalt, but Scavenger pushed away, taking hold of the stranger as he collapsed.

The others came forward as well, taking scans and mumbling amongst themselves. Mixmaster took Scrapper aside and explained.

“Prowl”, that was the designation of the Autobot who’d been with them. He was apparently a petty officer the Autobots decided was disposable enough to use in gestalt-experimentation since they missed Scrapper. They managed to weld the mech’s processor right onto the bond. 

They’d hoped that Prowl could control the gestalt since he was the connecting force bringing them together, but they underestimated the power of a shared hatred. Prowl overlooking Scrapper and turning the Lord Prime into slag, were the only things that saved him from being terminated on the spot. 

Scrapper’s gestalt appealed to Megatron and Starscream on the Autobot’s behalf. It had made him sick.

“Gah!” a startled Hook exclaimed as he was helm-locked into the impromptu wrestling match.

Scrapper pulled himself from his musing to trot towards his gestalt. They were a tangle of tickling servos, blunt claws and kicking legs. It was a mess.

Scrapper smiled at the pile of green and purple plating. Naturally, his optics were drawn to the black-and-white outlier, Prowl.

* * *

His optics narrowed as he stalked closer to the frame on the cot. His own frame buzzed with frustration

He was angry, of course he was—the rest of his gestalt was in the hab, recharging fitfully and healing from wounds gained in Autobot captivity. This mech—this _monster_ —had been part of them… 

Scrapper leaned over the bot as he came to.

* * *

Everything hurt.

Prowl’s entire frame rattled with exhaustion. He attempted to push himself up, but his arms collapsed beneath him.

There was a heavy weight on his chest—or maybe it was just his chest—everything felt worse when he was on his back. His own weight would pin him down and compress internals that already struggled to fit into their meagre casing. Thick armor had its drawbacks…

He tried to online his optics, once, twice, thrice—oh, there were his visuals.

He squinted at nothing, waiting impatiently for the fuzzy edges of his vision to smooth out.

A form came into focus about him, and their angry blue optics as well.

Something instinctive and bestial writhed within him—green and purple plating—one of his!

He reached out across the bond for this one, but found nothing. He tried again, earning an annoyed twitch.

The mech slammed his servo over Prowl’s helm, forcing him down harshly. “ _Don’t move, Autobot,_ ” he growled lowly.

Prowl felt something pinch in the bond—not this mech—others, they were… Afraid, but of what?

The new mech dug his digits into Prowl’s chevron.

Oh. Perhaps—

He lurched forward, the mech had hauled him upright by his chevron. He was shaken insistently, “My gestalt—how are you involved!?”

Prowl squinted his optics at the mech, but he still couldn’t see worth slag.

“You took them. You did something to them—I don’t know yet what it was, but you _will_ tell me!” the mech accused, and then Prowl felt a strange feeling.

His chest felt heavy again, but he wasn’t laying down, what—he flinched. There was something… Something else on his spark. It lashed against him angrily, and he panicked, latching his denta onto the other mech’s shoulder guard and wrenching as hard as he could.

The pressure let up from his spark, but servos yanked roughly at his flared plating. Prowl kicked out at his attacker, snarling and leaving deep scratches where his claws and derma tore at the other mech—whoever this was, they’d regret messing with Prowl.

* * *

Hook sprang up just a nano-kilk before the others did, and he raced out of their habsuite and down the hall.

Behind him, Long Haul was chanting, “Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag, oh frag,” likely coming to the same conclusion Hook had: Scrapper was confronting Prowl.

The Constructicons were no Autobot sympathizers—anything but!—however, Prowl was unique. During their forced merge, they had seen things in prowl’s processors that would haunt them—beatings from a cruel higher-in-command, dire rations, Autobot rehabilitation.

No one paused through the shiver. 

Mixmaster managed to pull ahead, smashing the open-code into the medbay lock, and their charged into a startling scene.

Prowl and Scrapper were on the cot, clawing, kicking and biting. The Constructicons weren’t sure whether the two were trying to pull away or get closer to each other…

* * *

The moment Scrapper noticed his gestalt had entered the room, he flew off the Autobot, “This—it’s not—“

Hook herded Scrapper towards the others before checking up on the Autobot, who immediately calmed down, his claws sheathing as he reached for Hook.

Scrapper looked on in amazement as the medic worked on the savage mech. Scavenger pressed against him, “Scrapper, are you okay?”

“Yes,” he assured quickly, “Everything is fine. I was just talking to the Autobot—“

“Our gestalt-mate!” Scavenger tutted at him. Scrapper stared. “I know you hate hearing this, but there’s nothing we can do—he’s part of our sparks now. We know you can feel him.”

Scrapper deflated at the huff, but didn’t want to let go of his point, “Look, Scavenger—“

“We know it ain’t fair, “ Bonecrusher lumbered by. “But there ain’t nothin’ we can do now ‘cept make it easier on all a’ us by getting’ along as best we can. This little heap a’ slag, “his visor cut over to the Autobot, sitting up on the cot with a servo resting on Hook’s shoulder pauldron, “Is with us whether we want him or not.”

It wasn’t often than Bonecrusher spoke as the vocalizer of wisdom, but it certainly made Scrapper see his way. He sighed duly, begrudgingly admitting to himself that he’d acted irresponsibly.

Starscream chose that moment to walk in.

* * *

Things well and truly de-escalated from there. 

Starscream went on to sort out their situation for them. He informed them that they’d have to handle Prowl themselves, lest High Command had to get involved. Scavenger forced Scrapper and Prowl to smooth things over—namely, by bawling and asking if they loved him—which, they did, so they complied.

Things were rough and ragged. They went slowly, and they circled each other more often than not. However, it was difficult for them to stay distant when movie-night scared them into their gestalt’s arms. Scrapper was just glad there was someone else who was as horrified with organic monsters as he was—even if it was an Autobot… Ex-Autobot.

Scrapper locked himself back into reality. His gestalt was still in a messy pile at the center of the room. He stood only a step away. 

Prowl. Scrapper pet at the white plating, and a fanged grin poked out at him from the cover of green and purple plates and treads. Prowl languidly crawled out of the pile, everyone was careful to avoid knocking his doorwings so he got out fairly easily.

Long Haul, still laughing, smacked a servo against the ex-bot’s aft as he passed, and Bonecrusher made sure to rest more of his weight onto the other combiner.

Something in Scrapper’s chest eased as he watched their laugh.

It was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bots being violent towards each other, nothing too terrible


	23. Too Tiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is shrunk…

“Aww!” Scavenger cooed, a small form huddling in his cupped servos. The other Constructicons gathered around, their visors bright with mischief and relief.

“He’ll be back to normal within the next decaorn,” Brainstorm chirped. “I’ll have a prototype up and running within the orn! The rest is _fine tuning_!”

He waved as he backed out of the door, already lost in thought, and the ex-cons grinned down at their foreman.

Long Haul was the first to reach out. Prowl’s suspicious glare zeroed in on Long Haul’s servo, kicking out when it came too close. It bypassed his tiny defensive barrage to poke at Prowl’s malleable midsection. Long Haul chuckled.

Prowl bared his denta in frustration, his pede shooing out to force the intrusive touch away. Long Haul kept his servo passive, allowing Prowl to wear himself out before moving again. This time, his servos stroked over the tactician, smoothing over his plating. Prowl didn’t push him away.

Hook was next, using a nearly imperceptible motion to rub at Prowl’s chevron.

Long Haul’s shoulders relaxed as he felt Prowl’s frame purr under their servos. Adorable.

Mixmaster reached in, plucking Prowl right from Scavenger’s servos and into his own. He walked over to the counter, ignoring the groans of protest, and set Prowl down as gently as an ex-con could, and hinted across the bond, _If we do too much, we’re going to get slagged,_ and a general sense of understanding went around the Constructicons.

Prowl may have been small, but his retribution would not.

When they looked back over to the counter, Prowl was no longer there.

Oh frag.

They sprang into action, scouring the habsuite for any sign of their wayward foreman.

From his perch on the top cabinet, Prowl smiled—self-satisfied and slow—and watched them scramble.


	24. Focal Flawless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night...

Loud howls broke out around him, only thirteen kliks into the movie and his gestalt were absolutely fuddled.

Prowl should’ve known better when they’d suggested _Focal Flawless_. Prowl was no holovid connoisseur, but that didn’t excuse the fact that he ignored his misgivings about the title of the film in order to cater to the sparkling, hopeful looks of the Constructicons.

However, watching his gestalt hooting at the frames shaking and gyrating on screen, he couldn’t help the warm curl of fondness that spread through the bond.

He settled back into Mixmaster’s side, and let the white noise of their chattering and hollering wash over him.

Peals of laughter could be heard from the next hall over.


	25. The Glyph Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and his gestalt play Scrabble

A few things were different about the scene. For one, the board and the game pieces were a lot bigger than they normally were. Second, the board and its pieces were hexagonal. 

Prowl first had the game custom ordered. Needless to say, the ex-cons got huffy and took the custom-ordered set, melted it down and recreated it for the express purpose of saying they’d made the whole thing by themselves. Prowl then had them re-remake to have six sides—so they could all play, hence, the state of the board currently.

Prowl felt his optical ridge tick as Long Haul laid out the characters A-L-V-E over his previous move of “vices”.

V I C E S  
A  
L  
V  
E

… “Valve”…

Long Haul had been spelling out such expletives for the entirety of the game. Nearby, “spike”, “chord”, and “nodes” were played across the board, connected only to glyphs Prowl himself had played. He sighed.

Mixmaster hummed at the board, deciding what glyph to put, rearranging his characters once, twice, thrice, and thoughtful look, a rub over his battle mask, he moved his servo over his pieces, then drew back again.

Prowl’s optics dimmed. He settled in for a long wait. As usual.

Meanwhile, Bonecrusher groaned impaciently, stilled, then got up quickly. Prowl watched him as he circled around the room several times, going to the counters, the couch, standing in front of the berth, then finally moving to leave the room altogether.

With just a sliver of concerned consideration, Prowl turned to the other smallest gestalt-mate, “Scavenger, would you…?”

Said mech looked up from where he spied on Mixmaster’s pieces, “You got it, boss!” and he bounded off after Bonecrusher.

Prowl turned his attention back to the game just in time to see Mixmaster put down one piece, completing the glyph “hi”.

Prowl discreetly perked up.

Hook, ignorant of Prowl’s impending victory—or perhaps in denial of it—quickly placed “sallow” a few blocks away, giving Prowl ample space to place down “highlands”, connecting to Mixmaster’s move of “hi”. The glyph reached the triplicate, bringing up Prowl’s score by twenty eight points.

Prowl’s redundant, “I win,” was drowned out by Hook’s exclamation of, “Gah!” and the noisy clatter of pieces being scattered as Hook flipped the board.

Scavenger and Bonecrusher entered the hab.

Prowl gave Hook a disapproving look. It may have been Prowl’s fifth time winning, but that didn’t mean Hook should be so emotionally invested in winning. 

The medic grumbled, but kneeled to help pick up the pieces with Prowl and Mixmaster. Bonecrusher rolled his optics and walked away. Scavenger pounced on the pile, picking up pieces. Prowl watched all of them carefully.

Later, when he counted the pieces, he noted that more than thirty went missing.


	26. First Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl becomes a bit green...

“Oh, wow, really?” a voice gushed nearby. Under normal circumstances, prowl would be more tolerant on the soft tones, but this wasn’t a normal circumstance, and the tone grated against his very spark.

After crossing Megatron—the Slag Maker himself—on the Lost Light, Prowl really didn’t predict something else going so wrong.

Medics were pushy at the worst of times, but Prowl was woefully unprepared for First Aid.

The medic had previous tendencies regarding large, strong mechs—the Knights, Infantry, the Wreckers. He’d been drawn to Spring, initially, then his fancy transferred to the other bots in the unit.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when First Aid’s optics landed on the Constructicons trailing behind Prowl, and he lit up like an Empty seeing fresh energon for the first time in vorns. He hurried over, babbling and running his sterile medic servos all over them in an unconvincing caricature of concern, telling them that if they had any problems, he would gladly oil their joints or help them stretch. Disgusting.

The ex-cons smiled to themselves as the bond festered and crackled at them. 

Prowl dragged then from the medbay halls five kliks later, his wings hiked up into a strict, pissed “V”, and his gestalt complacently following after him.


	27. Spit Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Group polishing session…

Prowl pressed a kiss against the nearest plate. 

He could feel Scavenger’s smile across the bond. Prowl pulled back and gently swathed the plates with polish. Scavenger shivered and barked a sweet laugh at the sudden coolness. Prowl rubbed it in with blue mech, blowing on the thin coat to dry it. Scavenger purred beneath him. 

On occasion, Prowl had to remind his giggly gestalt-mate to stay still. “You wouldn’t want to smudge my hard work, would you?” he would tease, running a servo through a seam on Scavenger’s kibble.

A gasp rag out across the bond. Scavenger bit his derma with a whine.

Hook and Long Haul sat facing each other, their servos jolted as they felt the ghosting of a servo tracing kibble that wasn’t theirs.

Mixmaster let out a yelp as Bonecrusher turned to mush beneath his servos, leaning on the nearest wall and smudging his fussy mate’s effort.

Smugness pinged across the bond from Prowl, when then moved languidly to Scavenger’s other side, hips swinging.

Prowl’s personal wash racks were in no way small, but with an entire gestalt fitted inside, everyone was within arm’s reach. This fact was exploited as five servos came to rest, tease and trace over Prowl’s wings, drawing a satisfied noise.

Prowl smirked into Scavenger’s intake as he was brought closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general touchy themes, not really explicit but i also wouldn't recommend reading where someone could peak over your shoulder


	28. Dance Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impromptu dance session with the Constructicons!

A rhythmic stomping slowly grew in volume. A heavy thrum went across the room—almost electric in its intensity.

Scavenger bounced in the center of the room. Furniture was pushed towards the wall and trinkets were picked up from the floor so no one would trip.

He popped his hips side to side, he felt Bonecrusher’s fascination and thrust his arms out in invitation.

Bonecrusher shuffled over, his servos grasping Scavenger’s. Scavenger himself whooped, sweeping himself to the side, still holding onto his gestalt-mate. Bonecrusher chuckled deeply, the noise was swept up with the tromps and stomps of their heavy pedes.

Mixmaster’s optics sparkled. He turned to Hook.

Long Haul wheezed as Hook backed away, bumping into Bonecrusher.

The larger mech released Scavenger and took Hook, twirling him around. His audials seemed unmoved by Hook’s flustered puffing, and his pedes likewise seemed impervious to Hook’s grinding steps.

“Come on, Hook, shake it!” Scavenger cheered, now taking Long Haul’s servos and swaying to the center of the room.

Grunting, long Haul lifted Scavenger into the air. “Whoof—yer heavier than I was expectin’!” he teased, setting down the smaller ex-con carefully.

Scavenger pushed closer and held out their arms to the side, “Yep! Sub-space’s full!”

Long Haul bounded to the side with Scavenger and threw himself into a new beat, “No wonder!”

They both exclaimed as Bonecrusher took them into his arms, swinging them around playfully until he collapsed backwards onto the couch. It creaked ominously as they howled with laughter. Mixmaster and Hook jumped over, piling onto their gestalt, drunk on their glee.

When Prowl came back from his work shift, the Constructicons were stacked on the deformed couch, snoring away.


	29. A Fresh Brew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee shop AU

Maltee’s Roast, one of the most quaint and energetic cyber café on Cybertron. 

The store was heavy with the chemical scent of various mixes and additives. Several closed vats sat on the counter, warm and bubbling audibly. 

Waiters and baristas dodged between tables, love seats and couches as they took and delivered orders. 

The place was crowded, but that fact wasn’t obvious at first glance. All available furniture was well spread, allowing the café to have a constant flow between the isles.

There were a few young bots there, Academy-young, who gossiped and bickered and laughed, filling the café with their exuberance.

Most of the other bots were older, well into their final frames; some even had sparklings with them.

Prowl sat along at a booth, reading The Cycle News.

Well, “alone” being a relative term.

Another mech was seated uncomfortably close to him, inanely talking at him as if he knew or even just knew _of_ Prowl, “So I was thinking we could grab our drink and go—where did you say you worked again?”

Prowl never told him in the first place.

“You seem like the sales-type, you know? A real optic-catcher to bring in some sorry shmucks! So where is it? Everglide Emporium? The Silverwarp Library? Oh, I got it—you’re a professor at the university!”

This mech was clearly deranged, it would be best if Prowl didn’t engage. His drink would come soon. Hopefully.

“Yeah, a ‘pad-pusher—a big reader! Let me guess, you’ve got a strict processor for… Hmmm… Calculations!”

Well, at least he was getting closer—

“Calculations in health sciences! Bet you could tell me about my ‘health’, huh? Ha! So where’d you say you worked, again?”

Prowl rubbed his chevron to ward away the helmache.

An engine growled nearby, prompting Prowl and his heckler to look up at the disturbance. A large mech with a dark helm, red optics, and a straining battle mask stood at attention, “Is this mech bothering you, Prowl?”

Said mech sputtered, grabbing at the table in a fit. “I would never! He asked me to sit here!”

Prowl’s incredulous frustration wasn’t lost on the barista. “… Of course. And now, I’m going to ‘ask’ you to sit somewhere else.” The mech puffed up, looking like he was going to argue his way, but before he would get in a glyph, the barista hissed, “I’m being _nice_ right now because I’m on duty. Once my shift is over, I’m going to watch you, follow you home, and disassemble you and whatever unit-mates you have, part-by-part, for touching my _gestalt-mate_.”

The smaller mech froze, then left in a hurry, tripping over his own pedes.

“Hook,” Prowl chastised—more out of habit than ire, “That wasn’t very polite.”

Hook huffed, putting his clenched servos over his hips, “Well, I needed to scare him away without a physical assault. One more and I’m ‘out of the job’, as if I care…”

He grumbled the last part, and a gentle smile crawled across Prowl’s faceplates, “Indeed.”

A pair of arms encircled Prowl’s shoulders from behind, “Indeed what?” Scavenger questioned from behind him.

“Indeed you’re going to get fired if you keep ignoring work to bother me,” he chuckled over his shoulder.

Scavenger ignored the jab and cuddled closer.

Mixmaster set down a tall tube before him, it steamed enticingly and he reached for it.

“All right,” he sipped the mix, “That’s enough. You all really will be fired—you shouldn’t be flirting with me while you’re on the job.”

The Constructicons groaned, but backed off, heading to their places. Before they left, Long Haul leaned in to whisper in his audial, “Then we’ll have to make it up to you when we see you at home.” 

Bonecrusher winked from across the counter, and Prowl left with his drink.

After all, the law only took _short_ breaks to flirt with its gestalt…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I do not endorse flirting with baristas or other customers when at coffee shops because baristas are literally hired to be nice to you and other customers just want to drink coffee in peace


	30. Pits and Slums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl needs some heavy-duty grunts to escort him around Kaon...

He stalked in the shadows of six hulking figures. The mechs—the _Constructicons_ —were a protective unit, or so it was said. They looked more like horror-vid styled monsters, made of dark, dull plating and jagged edges on all sides. They weren’t cheap either—their services were very valuable—especially in this area of Cybertron.

Kaon was known widely for its blunt brutality—gladiator pits, drug runs, and acid-decayed complexes. Kaon’s underground, therefore, was a nightmare in comparison—cage fights, black-market parts and illegal weapons manufacturing, _reprogramming_.

Prowl held back a shiver of disgust.

A lesser known fact about Kaon was how many mnemosurgeons there were. Prowl hated mnemosurgeons.

In addition to his combiner bodyguards, he had a reinforced metalloid panel under his neck cables which would hinder and even break mnemic needles. It was Prowl’s only solace. He steeled himself as he turned into an ally with his guards at his back.

* * *

He was small. Frail. Slow. 

Or so they’d thought. 

Their client, a cushy enforcing tactician from Praxus, was actually a termination-hardened warrior. Just looking at the mech’s sleek, clean black and white plates had them all fooled and sneering—why wouldn’t they? 

The mech wasn’t all that amazing. Sure, he had a set of pretty wings and an ample, shapely frame—Long Haul had been caught himself staring at the mech’s bumper more than a few times—but he was an outsider. He didn’t belong in Kaon, or the pits. 

It would take more than some spiffy polish and strict optics to turn Long Haul.

* * *

Bonecrusher wasn’t sure what to think. 

One klik, the little ‘forcer was right in their midst, the next, he was on the other side of the alley, pursuing some slum mech.

Bonecrusher was used to missing things—there were times when he even forgot where he was or who the newest client was—scare-tactics were his specialty, for some reason—but he wasn’t used to it happening so instantaneously.

This time, he didn’t drift into distraction—he spiraled out of it, violently careening back to reality when he never felt himself leave in the first place.

It was only later, as he watched the little ‘forcer work, that he hadn’t surged back into his own helm.

That little guy just moved too fast to track.

* * *

Scavenger bustled after the smaller mech as soon as he saw the other take off. 

He barely managed to keep up, making sure the gestalt-bond was wide open so the others could follow if he and their strange client skirted from their sights. 

He wanted to argue with the mech he was chasing, tell him he was following ghosts—what else were slum mechs, honestly?—but he couldn’t. He and his gestalt were being paid to watch after this insane, small mech. Who was Scavenger to judge?

Then, all thoughts of the mech being unstable crashed down and he watched the other mech take down his quarry.

* * *

Mixmaster stopped near Scavenger, who stood numb to that was happening before him.

The mech—the enforcer, straddled the back of a Glitter Bot—shareware—and cuffed him. Mixmaster twitched when he realized that the cuffs weren’t standard protocol—they had a strange glow, and the Glitter convulsed as if being electrocuted. 

The enforcer, adding more of his weight to rest on and trap the Glitter, murmured something Mixmaster couldn’t hear. He wasn’t sure if he’d want to anyways.

The bond strained, but none of the others could hear either.

The cuffs were tweaked, the Glitter shuddered in agony, gasping and murmuring back. The enforcer tweaked again. The Glitter thrashed intake open in a scream none would ever hear. A tweak. The Glitter sputtered and sobbed. He must’ve given the enforcer what he wanted, because he removed the cuffs, crushed the Glitter’s intake with his pede as he stood, and turned back to the gestalt.

* * *

The slum trash would terminate within the cycle. Hook’s optics tracks the heavy, steady trickle of energon that leaked from the downed mech’s throat.

The enforcer, sleek and swift, passed them as he circled back to the alley.

“We’re heading West.” A command.

The Constructicons smiled, sharp as shrapnel, and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda dark, doesn't get too explicit


	31. Seduction Dice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s a playful game of dice between gestaltmates?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your own sake, don't read this at a family gathering with your phone/computer brightness at max XO

”Kiss… Audial…!”

Long Haul’s optics crinkled in mischief and he faux-growled as he crawled over to Scavenger.

Scavenger hummed and squealed and flopped onto his back on the floor, “Eeeeee!” he cried as Long Haul retracted his mask and administered several wet smooches onto his audial.

Hook cleared his vocalizer, impatient for his own turn.

Long Haul smirked over at him, gave Scavenger one last kiss, and retreated back to his spot. He took the dice, shook them in his servo—very careful not to crush them as it wasn’t likely Prowl would buy them a new pair so soon after they crushed the last four—then rolled them to the floor. “Mmmmm… Nuzzle Audial.”

Hook leaned over, slight embarrassment leaking over the bond, and nuzzles his nasal sensor over Long Haul’s audial. Long Haul quickly turned and gave the mech a little nip right on the tip of his nasal sensor. Hook huffed, but the glowing tint on his faceplates betrayed that he was pleased about the whole thing.

He shook himself, plucked the dice from the floor and rolled them immediately. He sputtered loudly. Across from him, Bonecrusher mildly intoned, “Suck… Servos.”

He looked at Hook. Hook could _feel_ the grin slowly forming behind Bonecrusher’s mask.

”Wha—I—“ Hook blubbered, anticipation flashing across the bond, his faceplates burning.

”Bonecrusher lunged, catching the medic by the arms and drawing him up. He spared a moment to admire Hook’s clever servos—felt a flash of pride not his own. He retracted his mask and stuck all eight primary digits into his intake and gave a firm suck.

”Gah!” Hook exclaimed, fans clicking on and whirring violently.

Bonecrusher laughed around the digits, then choked and sputtered.

Scavenger fell over again in laughter as Bonecrusher backed off, gasping and hacking.

Hook trembled sheepishly, over-riding his fans and crossing his arms in a huff.

Prowl smiled as Bonecrusher regained his bearings and picked up the dice.

His turn.


	32. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl, a Praxian Academy mech, is abducted and ransomed, but he has some harsh truths for the perpetrators…

”Well now what?”

”Now nothing—we wait.”

”We’ve been waiting! For the better half of an orn! Let’s comm. again and get a statement!”

”Shut yer yap, motor-mouth! We’re tryin’ ta stay inconspicuous-like and we can’t do that if yer yellin’ up the whole pit-slagged neighborhood!” Shuffle, shuffle. “… Bring the kid over ‘ere, we’ll leave ‘em with one more message…”

Prowl’s ventilations were calm and collected. His captors had cut off his visual cortex after retrieving him—they likely had some sort of surgeon with them, that, or a slum-side organ-larcenist. He rather hoped it was the former.

However, he couldn’t quite help the stutter of his ventilation as he felt the chair he was strapped to being dragged back across the room. By the sad creaky protests of the chair back and the heavy groans of the metal floor paneling every step, Prowl could only guess at how large his botnappers were.

Finally, the chair settled—presumably in front of a hud-cam. 

The mechs had been recording him and growling about a ransom. Speaking of which, “I don’t have creators,” Prowl rasped.

The busy noises stopped abruptly.

”… What?”

Prowl wetted his derma nervously, “I don’t have creators. Or guardians… Or friends. There’s no one who will pay you for my safe return. Not that you were ever likely to succeed in the first place, of course.”

A heavy pedstep, “Excuse me?”

”Statistically, more ransom cases than not end with the perpetrators caught and put in their proper place.”

”Proper place meaning…?”

”… Behind bars.”

The next instant, Prowl heard and felt the door to the room get kicked in. A hoard of mechs rushed into the room and the sweet, wonderful sound of his captors yelping and panicking floated through his audials.

”Servos down!”

”On the Ground!”

”Pur your servos behind your helm! We will use lethal force if required!”

Ah. Beautiful.

The bonds around him were gradually loosened as the mechs were subdued. A gentle servo on his arm helped him stand and guide him. As the officer led him away, he called out, “Oh, and next time you decide to botnap someone, you ought to make sure they aren’t training under the local police force.

The feeling of shocked optics following his back was almost worth the trouble. A slow smirk slid across his face as he was lead out of the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not condone kidnapping, especially not the kidnapping of cops-in-training...


	33. A Spider In The Tub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Prowl! There’s a spider in the wash racks!” “Really, Scavenger? It’s an organic insect, it can’t do you any harm—oh. Hello, Mesothulas.”

Prowl didn’t bother edging into his habsuite anymore. 

He’d foolishly attempted to keep himself and the constructicons separate, but it was a useless—and painful—endeavor. The gestalt bond was taxing in a way usually only experienced when Starscream started talking—or existing at all—during meetings. It was impossible to fight, fatal to remove, and actually rather functional at times. Thus, Prowl reluctantly allowed the other mechs close. 

They first stepped around ammunition shells with him, then grew bolder as the orns passed.

It was no longer a surprise to see them sprawled across his berth, his couch, or his work desk—as much as he told them off for the last one.

Prowl was just getting ready to settle down at the aforementioned desk when he heard a shriek from a few paces over. Frantic pedesteps heralded Scavenger, visor bright and faceplates tense as he half-squealed, “Prowl! There’s a spider in the wash racks!”

He then proceeded to start bawling.

Prowl stood from his instinctual crouch and rubbed the ridge of his nasal sensor, “Really, Scavenger?” He stormed past Scavenger towards the wash racks—the little slagger wouldn’t stop bothering him until he took care of the problem, he just knew it. “It’s an organic insect, it can’t do you any harm—” he opened the wash rack door. 

He reset his optics. He reset them again.

”Oh… Hello,” Prowl took a cautious step onto the tiles, “Mesothulas…”

The overly fluffy mech grunted self-consciously, “Well, actually it’s ‘Tarantulus’ now, for... Obvious reasons.” He itched at his own fur.

Prowl hid a grimace. “Of course…” His optics narrowed as he considered the newcomer. “How exactly did you get into my _private_ wash racks?”

Mesothulas—er, Tarantulus—shuffled guiltily.

Prowl’s vocalizer went stern, “ _Mesothulas?_ ”

The technorganic whimpered and crouched behind the disposal unit, completely failing to hide the loose fur shavings caught in the grate of the air vent directly above him.

Scavenger, still standing at the door, sniggered.

Prowl turned and pinned his gestalt mate with a Look. Scavenger rolled his shoulders as he stepped back with another snigger, a bit more nervous this time, “Uh, sorry…!”

Prowl stared at him a nano-klik longer, nodded once, then looked back to the hairy mech peaking up at him from behind his trash bin. Mandibles clicked at him anxiously. Prowl released a put-upon exvent—for show... Mostly—then crooked his digits as he spun on his heel and back into the main room.

”Come here.”

Scavenger and Tarantulus scrambled after him.

The two followed him to the couch. Both shot each other bemused looks right up until the moment Prowl sat down in the loveseat and Tarantulus sprang forward to squeeze in next to him. Scavenger seethed and sat on the arm of the seat on Prowl’s other side. Tarantulus radiated smugness. Prowl’s servo clenched in irritation.

”So,” Scavenger began testily, “Who’s _this?_ ”

Tarantulus snorted before Prowl could say anything. “We’re _colleagues_ ,” he purred with a lecherous undertone.

”Tarantulus,” Prowl tutted. The technorganic gripped at Prowl’s closest leg, “ _Tarantulus!_ ”

Scavenger snarled, pushing across the seat and swinging his open servos at the offending bot. Prowl rocked back as Tarantulus caught Scavenger’s struggling servos with before they made contact, but the other bot continued to claw as if imagining wringing Tarantulus’ throat.

Prowl grunted in exasperation, jabbing Scavenger in the shoulder joint, making him back off. He swiveled and likewise landed a sharp smack over Tarantulus’ helm when the technorganic laughed.

Prowl growled in agitation, “Enough! This behavior is unruly and unbefitting of you both! If I wanted to deal with sparklings, I would have just made my own!”

Tarantulus and Scavenger froze. Their miens were then overtaken by—not shame, but _dreaminess_.

”I,” Tarantulus began slowly, as if weighing his glyphs, “Would love to have another sparkling with you, Prowl—”

”Wait hold up!” Scavenger shouted, spinal strut ramrod straight. “You had a bitlet with this creep!?”

”Mm, yes, where is he, by the way?” Tarantulus purred. “Our little Ostaros?” Prowl’s wings sagged a micron. Tarantulus stilled. “What? What happened?” 

Prowl’s intake opened, then hesitated, and closed again.

”No,” Tarantulas wheezed, grabbing Prowl’s shoulders, “What happened to our bitlet!? Is he—”

”No!” Prowl assured quickly. “I simply wasn’t… Ready to answer. To be honest,” he took Tarantulus’—servos? Hands?—in his, “I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again.”

”I’m sure,” Tarantulus muttered drily, thinking of how long he spent in the shadowzone.

”I admit that I may have acted a bit rashly at the time, but I truly thought you were going to hurt out cause—hurt _us_.”

Tarantulus’ mandibles clacked thoughtfully, “... That’s as much of an apology as I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

”Mmmmyup!” Scavenger chimed, mock-patting Tarantulus sympathetically. “He never apologizes to _us_ either,” he smiled as Prowl huffed.

”Speaking of which, who _are_ you?” Tarantulus queried.

” _Oh_ ,” Prowl’s optics narrowed at Scavenger’s tone. “It’s nothing, we’re just,” oh no, “ _Bound by the spark_ , no big deal or anything,” Scavenger chirped, sadistically flippant.

Tarantulus stared.

All eight optics blinked excruciatingly slow.

He turned to Prowl, “You’re what?”

Prowl shot Scavenger a disapproving look as he attempted to explain, “We’re not conjunx, or even bonded, really.” He bit his derma for a half klick. “I’m in a gestalt now.”

Tarantulus jerked, “How in the Pit did _that_ happen!?”

“It wasn’t a good situation,” Prowl agreed, “However, I can’t say I’m completely upset with the results…”

Scavenger grinned down at him fondly. “Love you too, Prowl!”

Tarantulus watched as Scavenger leant down to give Prowl a quick peck on the nasal ridge, an odd light in his optics. “... Things really have changed, haven’t they?” Tarantulus murmured, leaning into Prowl’s side more heavily.

The enforcer turned his helm into the fur of Tarantulus’ chest, “Of course, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

”No,” Tarantulus’ optics crinkled into a grin, “I suppose it doesn’t…”

Prowl relaxed slowly against his two mechs, and a faint smile graced his stern lips.

Later that evening the entire process was repeated when the other constructicons returned to the hab.


	34. Our Hab, In The Middle Of The Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Constructicons officially move in with Prowl...

Autobots everywhere looked upon the scene wearily. Prowl’s pets—uh, _unit_ , was stomping all over the base, lugging storage boxes and scrap metal with large grins.

Prowl himself was nowhere to be seen.

Optimus didn’t seem alarmed by the proceedings. Even Red Alert was annoyed, at worst.

Prowl, unbeknownst to the rest of the ship, was tensely pacing inside his hab. His doorwings twitched every half klik and his posture was becoming harder to sustain. He’d allowed the pushy mechs in before, but never with the intent of permanent permeability. 

This would be the start of something either very good, or very bad.

For the Constructicons, there was no uncertainty—this was a _very_ good thing.

Prowl had propositioned them just a few cycles ago, and they were already teeking with anticipation. It was of utmost importance that they move in as quickly as possible.

Scavenger straightened a few boxes; most of the items within belonged to him. Loose shavings, rebar, paint canisters and trinkets or every shape and size, but some materials belonged to Hook and Mixmaster—vials, medical grade, special engex mixes and inhibitor patches. When the containers were arranged to his liking—based on an odd combination of size, color, and content—Scevenger bounced up to the door of Prowl’s hab, and input the code Prowl had given them. Then they all waited with stalling vents. 

For a spark stopping moment, the door remained tightly closed, then opened in a rush of atmosphere.

Prowl was frozen in the doorway, one servo poised as if it had been reaching for the door code just as they did. He snatched it back as another five pairs of servos outstretched towards him. The Constructicons followed with tentative steps.

Prowl snapped to his senses and reset his vocalizer, “Your items should be placed behind the couch until I know we have space for it all.”

_We._

The Constructicons lit up; their fields reached and frames bumping into each other auspiciously as they began moving the boxes into the hab. They worked as they typically did, weaving around each other and placing the stocks in quick succession in the spot Prowl allocated for them.

As they piled their belongings into their new abode, Prowl slinked off into the wash racks and half-slumped against the wall.

He was almost looking forward to telling them he only had one berth.


	35. A Spider In The Berth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesothulas was only half kidding when he said he'd help Prowl get a sparkling, but he likes the one Prowl made with his gestalt too...

”Ahhhh, he’s perfect!”Mesothulas cried, mandibles tickling playfully at Atlas. The bitlet was now in his second frame, which he used to toddle around in and reach areas that he wasn’t supposed to be in. Atlas squealed at the attack and kicked out wildly. A pede caught Mesothulas’ lower jaw but the technorganic simply chortled.

“I know,” Prowl chuckled, smiling at the pair who next to him on the berth, “I made him.”

Mesothulas bounced the happy sparkling and murmured thoughtfully, “You never told me where _our_ bitlet was…”

Prowl rubbed at Atlas’s helm mindlessly. “He’s not offline, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s a soldier. Just like you built him to be.”

Mesothulas hummed and set Atlas on his chest. The sparkling pulled and gnawed on the fur with childish glee. “You _wanted_ a soldier.”

"I did," Prowl conceded, watching Atlas. "Then you gave me a sparkling." 

Mesothulas massaged Atlas’s tiny servos, “I wanted him to grow to love you.”

”He hates me. Besides, I couldn’t watch him grow just to plan his death—you made me get attached. I’ve been trying to keep him safe ever since.”

”He must hate you for that,” Mesothulas chuckled dryly. On his chest, Atlas rubbed his optics tiredly.

”Among other things,”Prowl condeded.

”... What did you make this one for, then?”

Prowl smiled soberly, and held out his servos for his bitlet. Atlas sleepily babbled and chirped as he was transferred into his carrier’s arms. He settled as Prowl’s field and spark wrapped around him, his optics dimmed behind his little visor.

Mesothulas found himself getting tired while looking at the peaceful sparkling, and slowly, he succumbed to recharge as well.

Prowl lightly scooted closer into Mesothulas’s frame, Atlas gently slid between them.

Prowl looked into the faceplates of his old partner and allowed his intake to open and whisper the answer, “ _Love_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY IF YOU READ THIS RIGHT WHEN IT CAME OUT IT APPARENTLY ATE A SENTENCE OF DIALOGUE BUT ITS FIXED NOW LMAO


	36. Tenderling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixmaster decides to give some love to his foreman...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really nsfw,,,,, but if you read this and someone spies it over your shoulder you may be accused of being a dirty robo fucker

Mixmaster stewed quite literally at the livingroom table. The boxes and tools from the gestalt’s move-in were empty and flattened, pushed somewhere under the berth they’d made promptly after moving in.

Mixmaster scowled just thinking of the old one. Don’t get him wrong, Prowl tried his best to get a berth that could comfortably fit everyone, but it didn’t work out so well. It was a dingy thing, a bit too wide and a bit too stout to hold everyone. As soon as the gestalt laid optics on it they knew it had to go. While half of the unit distracted Prowl with the unboxing process the other half stalked over to the berth, disassembled it, and starting bringing scrap from Scavenger’s junk pile into the room to create the new berth with.

After a solid team effort and some quick comms to get a suitable berthpad, their new quarters were then lavishly acquainted with a large plush berth. Prowl nearly blew a fuse after seeing it.

Mixmaster added a stabilizer to his mixture and looked over at the berth in question. Prowl seemed to have no more problem with it after grilling them for a decacycle on why they’d felt the need to replace it, as was evident by how the usually stern-poised mech was sleepily relaxing into the pad. He looked rather small on the berth. Mixmaster thought to himself for a nanoklik, nodded to himself, and began putting away his materials.

Prowl spared him a glance as the clinks and chirps of the vials shook him from his empty stare into a datapad. He blinked slowly at the proceedings before turning back to his work—well, _overtime_. Strictly speaking, Prowl’s shift ended three cycles ago and he was on strict orders not to exhaust himself. Prowl had a keen love for enforcing the law but not adhering to it himself in cases like these. Prowl often excused reading the datapads as “not being actual work” since he wasn’t actively filing or organizing any of the reports and schedule changes, merely looking them over and subsequently getting acquainted with his workload before having to do them his next shift. 

Pfft.

Prowl could call it whatever he wanted, it didn't change the facts.

Usually he would be more cautious about doing his “not work”, but the only one who really bothered him over it—Hook, was onshift in the medbay. As Mixmaster put away the final pieces of equipment he smirked to himself. It wasn’t his fault that Prowl didn’t think his being there would change his work schedule. Oh well.

Mixmaster turned around from his equipment and trudged over to Prowl. This time the commanding officer didn’t look at him, and then jumped in surprise as Mixmaster’s weight nearly crushed his datapad.

The bond sparked briefly with annoyance before closing down again. Mixmaster winced and Prowl sighed softly, holding open the bond again and carefully keeping himself calm. At least it was better than keeping the bond closed all the way, Mixmaster figured. Before they’d moved in, Prowl was still stubbornly keeping them out of the bond, expending himself in order to keep it closed and causing everyone involved to get bond-withdrawal. Not fun. 

A clumsy but apologetic pulse flitted at him over the bond and he savored it for a moment. Prowl carefully took his datapad from under Mixmaster and Mixmaster likewise pulled it away. Prowl’s derma twitched upward and he reached for the pad, leaning closer as he did. Mixmaster’s blast mask slid open and he gave his gestaltmate a peck on the cheek.

Prowl flushed prettily at the action then continued reaching for the pad.

This time, Mixmaster kissed Prowl on the derma. Prowl jerked for a moment, then kissed back. Mixmaster set the pad down on the end table away from his stubborn mate and rolled over him, careful not to use his full weight. Prowl’s vents hissed a bit at the pressure, but he displayed no toher signs of discomfort—in body language or over the bond, so Mixmaster leaned down and continued to lavish kisses over his gestaltmate’s faceplates.

Prowl, resigned to his fate, let his helm fall back onto the pillows as he accepted the kisses. His derma were set in a faint smile, and his cheeks were still tinted blue.

Mixmaster felt the pleased rumble of Prowl’s engine stuttering underneath him and grinned wildly. More kisses were pressed to Prowl’s cheeks, his jaw, his chin guard. Everything about him was perfect, sculpted just for Mixmaster’s derma.

Prowl’s vents hitched as he felt the thought over the bond. His servos were now gently resting over Mixmaster’s waist, happy to have the larger mech surrounding him and pinning him. He needed the confort. He always had. Only now, he had mechs willing to give it to him.

Mixmaster bore his weight down just a bit more, solid and warm. He was Prowl’s anchor. They all were. He kissed Prowl’s chevron, his headlights, his shoulder struts. He even kissed at those silly little handlebars on Prowl’s bumper. Meanwhile his servos found Prowl’s seams, tickling and stroking at random intervals. Prowl’s frame seized with giggles under the assault. His derma were pursed together to stop the laughter from escaping and his helm was thrown back, happy to expose the fragile wiring of his neck cables to his gestaltmate.

Mixmaster breathed into those cables deeply, grabbing hold of Prowl as the other had done to him, and flipped them over. He pushed one arm between them to give Prowl’s bumper something to rest on. It felt ridiculous but the feeling of approval and lethargic amusement over the bond was enough to quell any doubt that it was the right thing to do.

Prowl’s systems hummed gratefully, and his optics slowly slid closed as Mixmaster continued to rub between his wings. They fluttered slowly before laying flat and relaxed.

Mixmaster smiled and gave Prowl one last kiss before succumbing to the soft padding of the berth under him and the warm frame of his mate above him. The two drifted off into recharge.

The datapads sat unnoticed and untouched on the end table by the side of the berth.


End file.
